


No. 2 Was Caused By Fiestaware

by blagtiwitenois



Category: Pink Floyd
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Bob Erzin (producer), Gen, Please bear the nonsensical first chapter, Real places and real directions- go look them up on Maps, References to David Bowie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:40:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 87,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26549146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blagtiwitenois/pseuds/blagtiwitenois
Summary: An everyday October devolves into horror, and by the end of the month, all former semblance of one's previous life have been desecrated.(This work is dead, I am redrafting chapter by chapter.)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 10





	1. Scarlet

Five fifteen. Angels have gone. I'm changing trains. I'm changing trains. I'm jumping tracks.

A head on confrontation of myself shimmers like a pond in a mirror, sunbeam gazings. It's time.

**No. That hurt staring intensively**.

I can't breathe. I can't think. What is there to a life's complexity, and how can one reduce it to paired minimal to fit in their narrow worldview, such as I? With a ring on the left ring finger is soul-crushing. When one wastes ten years not doing anything, how do you forgive? How do you contextualize that unto yourself? Of course, you don't.

Hearing the sublime in music can only be achieved by seeking the sublime. Seek, and ye shall find. Wanting to reach out and take it, a juvenile with eyes wide.

I'm overthinking. I overthink too much. I observe too much and feel guilty. I'm barely developed.

_Do you think I know something you don't know?_

_If I tell you the answer, would you go?_

_Should I stand out in the rain?_

_Do you want me to make a daisy chain for you?_

_I'm not the one you need_

_What do you need from me?_

Two Forty Three. What is this strange occurrence I am hearing? It's a sacrament, maybe, demonstrating parallels.

This is entertainment?

I enjoy the electronics. Becoming more acceptable to soundscapes is a milestone.

Maybe a human voice? Not expecting it by now. I live in a proprietary dysfunction.

I am so tired.

I will hear breaking china shatter like minds.

Mind runs on empty. Confusion swims through 'green delirium', dragging me along by cord. Keyboard metallic mechanical sounds, fading into the deep blue. Everything is green and submarine. Lime and limpid green. Catastrophe from castille, when an eye bleeds and accidental twisting ensues. Dreams have preliminated this change, a horrific simulation. Where I look into a mirror lit by candlelight and no longer see myself. But that is yet to happen. The dreams are not my prophecy, I hope. Waiting is not my strong suit. A reset was necessary, however, and The Dame says one thing, but I think it's the opposite. I _know_ it is the opposite. They look the same, but ultimately, they could never be more different. One is a machine, the other man. No.. Machine is not an apt way to describe it. He lives for his work, he is what he presents. The other is more like a machine, doing obligatory human deeds, marriage and children, and killed the 'machine', as so was it called. But it never died. People think they are the same. They are not. Were you stabbed in the back, knife on Knife, and closed in the dark, forced to say you want this? You can't answer, because you died.

Of course, one always is resurrected, like Lazarus. It was not Jesus, but the man pining for his machine. Turning it back on, it took him over and changed him, and he was no longer a man, but a blade of work. it just so happened the man himself, in his poor life choices and old age, died thereafter, and the memory of the blade lingered, striking tones into life and mind.

Should I appropriate? No. But am I? Of course, yes. March 6th is where it all started. The thing has infected spread, and malaised my mind. It's beginning, the changes, the issues, and how long will it be before I wake up with memories that aren't my own? When will be the day where the eye bleeds? Proportionally, it's a small, sad person. Is this it? Is this the day?? I always wake up thinking I'll be slotted, then I'd have to run and hide. But with nowhere to go these days, I'd rot out there.

Well, I think it's finally happening, slow and disturbing. Lights are pulsing out there, sky turning red, bad thunderstorms. I find myself screaming inside. An echo chamber with nobody else in it, because I don't invite them. Because they shouldn't be in here. They would send me to a sanitarium... or something.

Am I a rippling mirage? Limpid green is fading into cursed ice, where something lurks, swims... No one has noticed, though. Luckily.

Motor skills have been deteriorating. Hands are loose and trembling, I keep on breaking plates when trying to hold them.

_Broken China._

I broke some china. _MY_ china, my porcelain egret. As if not learning from that lesson, the teapot is shattered and gone, shards of blue and white now in the junk drawer, the egret's headless form stalking eyelessly. Egret regrets.

I had a dream I was on a sailboat. It was bizarre. I was sailing, enjoying it, and then it took a darker turn. Things were not going well. There was a stormfront, roiling with lightning and blocking out the sun, and you know what? I got thrown off, and the boat drifted away. I was then eaten alive by disgusting cancerous-looking sharks. I saw my blood, and a reflection for the purest split second. It was not me, fortunately.

I don't know why, but I'm sleeping too much. It involves intervals of waking minutes, and then I fall asleep again, my dreams becoming more and more vivid, and now I'm getting them confused with my memories. I can't tell if I went sailing or not, whether those people are strangers or friends. I don't think I ever went sailing in... this reality, but how can I be so sure? What if these are _my_ memories, and I'm just an amnesiac living in a schizophrenic torpor of a fugue state? Crisis is creeping, more china is breaking, soon I'm crying because I'm so tired all the time and the dishware is broken on the floor, I'm cutting my feet but too exhausted to pick up pieces of ceramic and glass. But I want to go sailing sometime. I don't have a boat, or anything, but dreaming about the sea has gotten me thinking. When I step on a piece of china, I don't feel much as it slices my foot open, again. I don't even bother to look, and I have probably not eaten in days. But does it matter? I want to sleep.

A new development has occurred, being that someone has started busking inside my head. It's a Wednesday.... or a Sunday.... or something. October has come, and I'm in a poor state. Thinking has become more convoluted. During waking hours, I hear torturous soundscapes that screamed and hummed, garbled voices, and I'm not even sure what my name is anymore. Things fuzz together, vision is distorted by light lines and static. The curtains are constantly up. Sometimes, a pleasant and clear thing will come by, but that makes me even more sleepy, so I end up collapsing on the floor now. I'm falling through, through these vague waves of sleep, and slowly, things become more vivid and lucid. I'm not me, of course I'm not, because this is a dream. Seabirds are flying round the boat. I'm fishing, doing some fishing, and swatting away the gulls with my rod. Eventually, I give up and toss some bait aside for them, the boat swaying, the sea breeze in my lungs, the land so far away. _This is nice_. _Why not stay just a little while longer...? Maybe. But Franka might get worried._

...Who's that?

I'm marooned, just the seagulls and I, I'm listening to something else, far off in the distance. What is it? It's music, of course. An instrumental, most prominent by a long guitar solo, accompanied by melodramatic piano and steady drumbeat. _Marooned, that's what it's called._ Is it? Not that I'll be able to function outside of dreams. Not that I'm functioning inside dreams. Not that I can think this in my dreams, which is why I'm thinking it right now, lying on the floor, face pierced by broken china. I feel a particular piece.... yes, lodged in my eye. With particular dread, I know what is coming. This is no dream. I don't want this, but I'm not even sure what to expect.

This phase has ended, and a regression is ensuing. Quickly going back in time, dull pain turns sharp, and my slashed feet feel sore and are likely infected. I walk on the broken china and scream, the pieces sinking into my skin, but I limp over to the mirror. Looking awfully thin, tortured, and distraught, I see myself, fortunately. Though I barely recognize the thing in the mirror, because my face has large pieces of glass in it, just as I thought, and is slashed open and dripping. Eye is bleeding. Can I sleep now?

_If you go to sleep now, you will never return._

Does that mean die?

_You will be sacrificed. This is the initiation._

I don't want to live anymore. Do it already.

Breathe, and darkness.

* * *

If you're standing there doing nothing, what exactly do you do when you're in a tormented state of limbo? The line is blurred right now. I have all memories of two things and no memories. I am nothing and everything, I have no distinctions from the rest of the world. A vessel has no personality, no soul. It has programmed thought, can make memories, seems personable, but they are destined to change. A vessel who never received a soul is prone to wasting and convoluted impressions. Wishes have no predetermination, they nearly never happen, but when these two things intersect in perfect conjunction, the wishes are not received by wish accountants (rather mal/be/nevolent rouges of the fourth dimension doing it on a whim), but rather by spontaneous grantation, where the request will bounce around in a confined manner and then combust into reception, where it will begin violently and efficiently working, causing chaotic mess. It's exemplified when that wish _is_ by a (ex-[?])Pink Floyd member, that being David Jon Gilmour on his birthday. Just another year older, and the proprietary 'Make a wish!' was yelled by Polly and the kids.

And what did he wish? It was a genuine wish, but he knew that wishes are just a superstition.

Human thinking in this split second decompressed into a paragraph:

He was pretty content with how his life had gone, he didn't really want to touch on Roger because the man was _kind of_ insane, so he extended his ferny feelers towards something he had missed for the past decade or so: Richard Wright. He wished that Rick was still alive, not that it would do anything, because it was a hopeless and unachievable wish. But wouldn't that be nice? To have a chance to start all over. Roger was practically an even more lost cause, being that it was more likely that Richard would return from the grave than Roger would admit to his own self-serving tendencies and left-wing radicalism that went far beyond any kind of political discourse, anti-Semitic rhetoric directly at concerts, so intense and obsessed with protests for the liberation of Palestine that even the organization that advertised the cause had to apologize for his extreme ideas.

_I wish Roger would shut up and let peace be._

The day was March 6th.

Today was October 2nd, it was rather drafty, and a man was screaming down the street, glass in his face. The screams were ghastly, and he ran about, blood everywhere, wearing all white like someone from a sanitarium, but it was just his normal clothes, white dress shirt and white dress pants, matched in his delirious paranoia, now splattered with blood. He was barefoot, and no one could recognize him because his face was slashed open by shards of dishware, one pale-blue eye darting, swimming in pain. The other one was irreversibly damaged, impaled by a sharp piece of red fiestaware. No one, not even the battiest old lady with twenty-six parakeets agitated by the noise, felt compelled to call the police, nor emergency medical services. The man, who only knew pain and suffering, couldn't remember the slightest thing about anything. He was the embodiment of nothing. He wasn't invisible, but... no one cared. I mean, until they did. Inert ears became aware of the anomaly in their anomaly, and they looked out their window to see a 'faceless' man bleeding all over the streets screeching like he was dying (the people guessed he was, by his state). _Finally_ , someone called 999, then everyone was calling 999 reporting an insane man causing civil disruptions, being that in this noon hour, he should be working, or at home with the wife or something. Or, they were saying that he looked like he was mauled by an easily-chipped porcelain bear.

It appeared in the local news, along with graphic pictures across the Net taken from autopsy. Yes, he subsequently died after they got him into the hospital, bled out when they were trying to pull out all the china. Examining the face, they concluded repeated falls into an assortment of glass, ceramics, and porcelain.

"The best thing we got is that he was narcoleptic, and maybe he dropped all those pieces, considering the way the pieces are broken," told the doctor to a reporter. "We may examine him later; the corpse is currently preserved." Yes, the corpse was in a drawer, stacked and arrayed with other deceased. But was he really dead?

October 3rd.

It's rather chilly in that morgue, but an invisible fire burns, a raging inferno. The china has been removed, leaving only that disfigured, raw, red flesh mask and deep stabs in the soles of his feet. The man is forgotten, but something is changing.

David Gilmour senses a feeling in the air, like it's been possessed by pins and needles. Bothered, he feels like someone's behind him, constantly.

October 4th.

Where have the wounds in the feet gone? Of course, no one wonders that, because they're trying to get a permit to fully examine this John Doe. The apartment where the shell once lived is silent. David Gilmour is getting worried. This feeling is getting more intense, he swears he's hearing indistinct whispers.

October 5th. Do you see that? No, nobody saw it, but that flesh that was face is now becoming face. The skin is cold to the human touch, heart not beating. Doctors would be squinting, but it's true. The face does not lie. But if the husk still had its memories, it would not recognize himself.

October 6th. David's thinking, _What's happening?_ The voices are chanting ' _Are you happy now? Are you happy now?' over and over and over_ , incessant. He doesn't feel right at all; something is off-kilter, something is wrong with him. Obviously, the voices are indicative that he could be going the way of the guitarist he replaced, but there was a deeper meaning, a deeper feeling, that gave him trepidation.

The face is flawed, but it is near-complete. Slowly, it becomes apparent that this is not the person had been screaming down the street, nor the face of the anonymous drifter who had come before that liminal phase.

October 7th. Medical examiners had not peeked at the corpse, which had been neglected for four days. It was in a perfect state (in comparison to the liminal state), in what would be considered a torpor state. The heart began its work, impossibly slow, brain waves sub-delta, internal temperature fifteen degrees Celsius. Of course, the doctors weren't measuring this, because they were working over those damn contracts and reviewing data for a drafted death certificate. But it was irrelevant now, they just didn't know.

David was wondering what happened.... The voices had stopped, but the paranoia remained. Everything was subtly more bizarre, slightly disconcerting David. The changes were small... but had a butterfly effect.

Also on October 7th... Roger was getting incredibly suspicious of some nonspecific thing that he couldn't put his finger on. Who had drugged him? Ha ha. Despite confinement, he felt strangely more lively than usual. Who had drugged him? He knew he could be an enemy of the state, any of the ones he had protested against. The capitalist pigs, or Israel... Ha, ha. A musician, noticed by those kinds of figures? Never. It was probably just something in the air.

October 8th. The man embedded with broken china embedded in his face was to be checked on. Delta-stage sleep, internal temperature has risen to thirty degrees Celsius, heart rate thirty-nine, doctors confused as to why there was a mix-up in morgue number labels. The coroners began searching through every drawer, and found no such fiesta-face. They kept a record of all the patients, but could not find one for the corpse that had specifically replaced the street screamer in that drawer. It was a perfectly normal dead body, externally with no such traumas, and they could only wonder what kind of exchange had taken place. They notified the mortuary, who said they didn't have custody of the deceased Doe. Ordering an investigation into the new body, it was removed and checked for signs of life. The warmer temperature had sped up the process of the body creeping back to life, and they easily found a pulse, which was irregularly sluggish at forty-five beats per minute, however heart rate accelerating. Body temperature hypothermic, at a mere 32 Celsius, but rising as well. Being poked and prodded, having eyelids forced open and being shone into certainly got the brainwave cycles going, however the brain wasn't in a state to function normally due to the low temperatures, and hypoxia wasn't optimal right now, either. Heart running slow, brain running slow.

He saw the light, and synapses barely fired as he half-thought: _Is this heaven? Am I dead already?_

From a half-baked thought arose a spike in activity, but the doctors didn't notice as they rushed around to treat his moderate hypothermia, but it was quickly becoming milder as it rose to 33.8 Celsius. Heart rate fifty-two, once-corpse becoming more lucid by the minute, realizing that he was in a medical room. Temperature was re-checked, 34.5, very mild hypothermia, and the activity simmered down, but he was still smothered in hospital blankets, because he was very confused and lethargic, and anything below 35 was enough to be considered hypothermia. Nervous system all awry, his perception was off, time seems to distort and warp, dreamlike, hearing voices unintelligible.

Gilmour was feeling sickened by all of this, no distinction between why and how and when. Polly was worried for him, she noticed his troubled looks, staring off and spacing out, and he admitted to feeling a strange paranoia for no particular reason. She reassured him, and though he felt a bit of resolve, it wasn't enough. Were those liver spots walking off, or was he not looking right?

Roger, when did Roger get so paranoid? He felt as if something was going to happen, no, it was too late. It was too late to stop it, it was already happening. He wanted the silence, to close himself in the dark and disappear until these... unwarranted duality of feelings left him. Well, he couldn't see a therapist, not in these times.

October 9th

The doctors had an alert patient after half a day and a night's rest, and was in general care. Checking his vitals, normal things to make sure he was ready for discharge.

"Nice eyelashes," said one of the nurses passing by.

The patient fluttered them spectacularly, and all was... well?


	2. Lapis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The identification is procured, the road long not travelled is taken, and a reunion takes place.

October 9th, Pt.2

He was escorted to a different ward, and as he left the morgue he could only wonder what had happened in _there_ as for him to end up there. They did a physiology test on him, determined that he was perfectly fine, despite the fact he was severely hypothermic just a few hours ago. They began to perform a general test for mental status. The doctor was observing him and taking preliminary notes for a neurocognitive/identification test.

_General level of comfort: Nervous_

_Gender: Male_

_Grooming: Mildly disheveled_

_Height: 182 cm_

_Posture: Stiff_

_Eye contact: variable_

The doctor stopped scribbling on his clipboard, and began to ask the man questions:

"What is your name?"

"Richard William Wright," he replied.

"How old are you?"

"Sixty-five."

"Where do you work?"

"I am self-employed."

"Where do you live?"

"London."

The doctor wrote a bit more on the clipboard.

"What day, time, and year is it?"

"Er... September fifteenth, sixteenth, not sure, two thousand and eight... feels like noon." a pause. " Not sure why'd you'd be asking the last question," he joked awkwardly.

The doctor internally furrowed his brow, not wanting to use any visual cues as to cause distress in the patient.

He wrote: _Patient thinks date is 9/16/2008._

"What season?" continued the doctor.

"The autumn equinox is very close," mused this Wright. "Nevertheless, still summer."

_Patient puts equinox into context; thinks it's still summer._

"Well, that's it," said the doctor in a neutral tone. "Let me write down a few things..."

_Behaviour: Ambivalent_

_Psychomotor behaviour: Anxious but not aggravated; expression of mild confusion, movements hesitant._

_Attention span: Normal_

"Tell me a random thought," said the doctor, pencil ready.

"Um... I like the leaves in the fall... especially the red ones. Not so fond of orange or yellow, but that ruby colour is admiringly stark," generated the patient.

"Okay," said the doctor, writing: _Patient has the ability to complete a thought._

"What is thirteen times four?" asked the doctor.

The patient paused. "Fifty-two," he concluded after a few seconds' calculations.

"Name three ways to fix a vase after it is broken," sighed the doctor. Either the patient was messing with him on the date question, or he had problems.

"Well, um, one way is to use superglue," said the patient. "Another way would be duct tape..." another pause... "Or you could throw the vase away and replace it? Not sure if that counts as fixing, but it's, er, fixed?"

_Patient's problem-solving skills are adequate._

"Now, listen attentively," said the doctor. "No matter what happens out there, listen to what I am saying and then summarize it." He began to drone about the physiology of an American Goldfinch, and suddenly distant screaming and honking noises were heard outside. "THE GEESE ARE TAKING OVER!" hollered a woman. Rick absorbed the information aptly, and repeated an approximation of what he had heard.

"The, um, American Goldfinch is a, pass...erine in the finch family. Males and females are differentiated by, uhm, the bold... yellow and black of the male.. and the dull browns of the female. It is.... widespread across the United States, and, ah, is the state bird of Iowa..., New.... Jersey, and- and... Washington-... state."

_Patient is not easily distracted._

"Good," said the doctor. "That's it. We'll prepare this and your physiology exam, and you'll be out in no time."

The doctors looked, but they could find no record for a person named Richard Wright that matched the appearance of the patient.

David could not. It was a mere week in this state, but he was watching the years pass through him. At least, that was what his theory was, people were passing through time as normal, but time passed through _David_ , and for that matter, it was walking backwards, a year a day. But he could just be going mad. He racked his brains around this. 2013... what was he doing? Remember That Night... the O2, beginning to record The Endless River. What if this was a thing where it was like Benjamin Button, where one just regressed into a dementia-ridden child and then fetus, and nothing? No, no thank you, especially if it's not day-by-day but year-by-day. David could be done for in two months' time. Ridden by fear. He couldn't tell anyone, not even Polly. He could vent all his anxieties to her, but that was it. He hoped this was just paranoia and not the cruel supernatural or something like that.

Roger had looked in the mirror, and began to see a gradient in appearance. It was quietly creeping up on him for the past week, but this was a hard turn. This was the point where he'd toed and walked back across the line from _very old man_ to _old man_. That was the best way it could be described. A pit was slowly opening up. They won't notice now, but they will notice when your hair has strands of brown in it... Oh, the nausea. What had done this to him? Despite being dedicated to developing This Is Not A Drill, it became harder and harder to work due to these... certain distractions. Over these certain anxieties, and then there was Rolling Stone magazine, Kory Grow's articles... He couldn't do any more song renditions if people were going to see him over that camera after a certain point... when's one supposed to get to fearing?

_I'm already five years older, I'm already in my grave..._

Nick was getting a bit suspicious, but wasn't sure what was going on. Was his hair getting any darker? He was wondering, because it was beginning to look like it.

"Did you try to dye your hair?" Inquired Nettie, external sources confirming suspicions.

"No, I think otherwise it would have uniform coverage, don't you think?" said Nick.

"Then what is it?" inquired his wife.

"I... don't know," sighed Nick.

"Or is that a wig?"

"No."

October 10th

The doctors had done a general search on the Web to see any Richard Wrights. The first that came up was an American author known for his classic _Native Son_ , and was prevalent throughout the image section, but the second image suggestion through a wall of Richard Wrights (author) came a Wikimedia Commons Image with the link 'File:Richard William Wright, 1971, Meddle.jpg - Wikimedia C...' (cutting off for max amount of characters). The subject of the image bore a superficial resemblance to the patient, being a black-and-white photo with lowered contrast, a young man with a beard staring half-absently into the camera.

They tracked the Wikipedia page, and absorbed the information, that was he was in the band that did the 'we don't need no education' thing, a mildly famous person. Interesting. The first image on the page was almost a confirmation of the patient's identity, but also it stated that the subject was deceased.

He died on the fifteenth of September, 2008.

_This is beyond science.... returned from the grave?_ The doctors could not make out a clear picture.

Meanwhile, the nurse was tasked with telling Wright he had been misplaced in time.

"Sir, I'm not sure how to tell you this, but the date's not September fifteenth, it's October tenth,...." the nurse informed him of the year. Wright immediately paled.

"Then, where am I? What is this place? What happened?"

"Well, it says here Richard Wright _died_ on September fifteenth, 2008. Of lung cancer." said the nurse. But the resemblance was too uncanny to deny. "You're at the Addenbrooke's Hospital in Cambridge."

"...Oh."

The memories came back. Three children looking solemnly, silent tears. Richard felt the life slipping from him, and he felt no will to live anymore. The day was September 15th. The cancer was terminal, and death consumed him. That's all he could remember, besides brief flashes of sailing in his Greek exile.

Counseling was on hand, but Wright refused.

The doctors were well aware of their predicament, being that this patient seemed to defy time, space, and death, completely. It was a complete mystery. They even had an incident recorded by the coroner, where this person seemed to replace a John Doe deceased in suspicious circumstances involving varying fragments of saucers, plates, mugs, glasses, fine porcelain, and particularly, bright shards of fiestaware. Trying to identify the victim, who was marred beyond recognition, was a difficult and ultimately unfruitful endeavor, so they put the body in the freezer at a temperature of negative thirty Celsius for later investigation. Considering that stringent examinations were performed to check if one was alive before sending them inside a cadaver freezer, it would be impossible for a live person to get trapped inside. And the fact that it was -30 Celsius in there was enough to make one consider their sanity. The patient was just lucky enough to be let out by doctors that were going to perform an autopsy on the dead man. But his identity was an extreme enigma, being that he bore exact resemblance to, well, himself, yet "he" died in 2008, _and_ the patient claimed the date was after the day of death. So who was this Wright figure, really? Well, it was Wright, they concluded with hesitation. They compliantly gathered up a few materials, involving orientation of the present day reserved for stroke-acquired amnesiacs and other people with various psychological disorders, among other things, and familiarized their patient with things that happened between the twelve-year gap between death and living (again).

"Are there any residences you could stay at?"

"...Maybe."

"And where would that be?"

"I would be most confident in the residence permanence of David Gilmour, however, it would be my daughter that I would like to try and contact first, if her number has not changed."

"And what is it?"

The patient rattled off the number, and reception was to call Gala Wright. Punching in the number, they heard the dial tones, and then a robotic voice disappointed them with a "Sorry, this number is not in service."

"Number has changed," relayed the doctor, and the patient sighed. "Well, then. Gilmour's number." and told them his number.

Someone was calling on the phone. Who was it? David didn't want to talk anymore, but he looked at the number: +44 122 321 6348, and had no idea who it was. He picked up anyway.

"Hello, who is this?" he asked hoarsely, due to the fact he had not communicated today with anyone.

"Hello, Mr. Gilmour, this is the neuroscience ward of Addenbrooke's Hospital."

"What relevance does this call have?" David demanded, immediately worried. Was it his children, was it one of his friends? Or had someone noticed and they were out to get him?

"There is a patient requesting temporary residence where you live," reported the phone person.

"Who?" inquired Gilmour.

"Claims to be Richard William Wright." The room deemed to dim, and a low drone came over all sound momentarily. "Do you know who that is?"

"Yes," said Gilmour. "May we communicate?"

"Let me relay that..." was the reply, and again, the phone rang.

" _Yes?_ " said David in a bout of irritation after picking up.

A long pause on the phone. "David?" asked a voice, a voice too familiar. The wind seemed to rush out of his lungs.

" ** _Rick?_** " was the reply, saturated in disbelief. The world seemed to close into a corner as haunting memories flooded back into David's head.

Rick was not sure why David would believe him so easily, but brushed it off.

Usually, David would never believe something so erratic, and would even be internally angry at the (presumed) fan's blind attention-seeking. But he was able to believe this person so easily because of the extra things he was experiencing. Things that were impossible were suddenly happening, and creating tension and chaos and other things.

Roger _was_ mad, not going out, not eating, pacing around his house and manically writing various things in scattered journals. The only recordings he was doing were screams, the only thing he felt compelled to do, and posting them in bouts of deluded coordination anonymously to the Twitter account. Meanwhile, all the other socials had gone completely silent. He didn't have to explain himself to _anyone_ , and he wouldn't. He felt like he couldn't ever think straight, he had never, and he never would. Howling screams were said to come from across the Sagaponack pond, from that irritable old man's house. No one came, no one left. Of course people were trying to e-mail him, asking him what the _hell_ was going on with Twitter, but in his crazed state he didn't check anything at all. Pretty soon, the phone was ringing, but nobody picked up. Papers scattered everywhere, pens lying on the floor and in the cabinets, a single glass on the kitchen counter, things left immaculate. Roger had gone off the deep end, sanity dissolved like water-soluble asprin.

Addenbrooke's had taken all of David's attention. "I'm going to pick someone up, maybe," he said to Polly.

"Maybe? You don't mean... _Roger_ , do you?"

"Of course not," snorted David. "Never that old codger."

David had to drive all the way to Cambridge, from Wisborough Green, around London approximately two hours. It was beginning to rain, heavily, and the countryside running along the M11 was cast in dull tones. There was an undertone of apprehension, David wondered if it was just a dream, all made up in his head. He couldn't help but feel nervous. Was this a sick joke? What if David was becoming so delusional that he made the whole thing up in his head? And what about the age incident going on right now? Was that going to continue, or would it stop accordingly? He was distressed, because it wasn't good or anything- this would throw his entire life off-balance if it kept on going in those strides. Polly had even told him, "You look like you're well-rested.", a precursor to something else more sinister. The road seemed to stretch out forever, and the closer he got to Cambridge, the more memories began to file in, flashes of the Polytechnic, trading chords with old Syd, and a strange moment he and Roger had, watching the autumn leaves fall to the ground, rust oranges, citron yellows, and the beautiful ruby-reds, reminiscing about their childhoods. _Memories inside memories._ The more recollections occurred, the more he realized that the whole of them had been a unit, not just the three sans Roger. But Roger wasn't compatible with them anymore, especially because he was inclined to live directly off the Wall, and all its derivatives , a continuation found consistently as a main theme in all his albums (except The Pros and Cons of Hitchhiking), recontextualized into whatever he found relevant. And being very opinionated and constantly advertising whatever cause he was obsessed with didn't help. But David found himself missing the friendly and brilliant songwriter, or the anonymous bassist who, if you were to glance a bit at him performing live, you could see him peacocking to his bass. Although Roger was still alive, David found himself mourning for the man, who felt long gone.

But that was nothing compared to Rick. Rick had been the quiet one, yet so integral. His death indicated the Floyd would never be able to perform as a whole set together, something David was up to back in the day, time-wise just fifteen years ago, but age-wise seven, if his calculations about that _thing_ were correct.

The Division Bell felt like it had been released just two seconds, months, or years ago, but it was an entire twenty-six. The time it takes for an infant to become an overworked adult. Where the idealistic young men and women lost that spark, jaded by society. Where the old men became even older, when they saw new frontiers, feeling like they were back in their twenties, and yet nothing happened for them.

David didn't know where his life was going. Either way, it wasn't good. If it was true, his family would become alienated by his bizarre predicament, his unfamiliarity, and no one yet everyone would recognize it. It was too iffy now to discuss, and he'd eventually have to admit when he grew two feet of hair overnight. However, it would become noticeable in just a few days. He was more public in the 2000s, and therefore more photos. If one were to search 'what does David Gilmore look like now' (some people misspelled his last name) they could confuse more sparse photos of present day with those of some ten, fifteen years back. There was a significant difference between the two types.

And Richard? If it was him, would he be too alienated by future Gilmour, future Floyd, the wounds of the past being ripped open by Roger? David had a dilemma: should he contact Waters for the first time since their disastrous 'peace summit', where Roger's intention was not really to make peace, but to debate on a release of a remastered version of Animals on vinyl? Nick and David were miffed, particularly because it was advertised as getting over prejudice before the men, in their old age, would die. The bridges were being burned even worse then they were already, as if accelerator were liberally dumped all over the angry but dwindling flames.

If David did not tell Roger, the man would be angry and it would hurt badly, but if he did, Roger would be a... David was worried that Rick would be unnerved by Waters, and the issue between age, Roger would definitely notice what had happened with David if they met in-person. Nick wouldn't be an option, either, because of the same reason. Unless the same thing happened to be happening to them, but David couldn't recognize their situation as of now.

Soon, the M11 branched out into the A11, and he found himself at a certain freeway intersection and turned left onto the A1307, cutting across Barbraham, watching as the lines of countryside trees were cut by gold fields and hedges. He was finally on Cambridge Road. Soon, brick walls lined the highways, topped with English ivy. A few houses skirted by, David drove a semicircle around a roundabout, the road getting smaller and narrower, forest giving way to fields of grass hidden behind box-trimmed bushes. More houses popped up, this time in a small suburb paralleled by expanses of man-maintained grass. An exit to whatever Copley South was. A gasp of wooden-plank fences with houses standing smugly behind them, and the forest lashed back, but only briefly. Descending smoothly into grassland with trees in the distance, and an explosion of signs appeared, followed by lamplight and railings. A car dealership selling Audis. The bout of commercialism was smothered by the superlative suburban region, signaling that one was officially in the custody of Cambridge. A little further along, and the claustrophobic feel was eliminated when coming onto Hill Road and into the heart of Cambridge. He turned left again after going straight for a numbing amount of kilometres, and then taking a small roundabout, driving straight and finding himself surrounded by buildings.

At last, came the massive hospital. Navigating around the parking lot, finding a spot on the second level, and finally stopping the car. Getting out, he realized this could be it: Rick could be here, or he would walk in and confuse the receptionist with his nonexistent request, or whoever sick person being an imposter of Rick would disappoint and anger David. This was an tumultuous platter of thoughts, a new chapter in his steady life, or just a lie, a trick, a false scenario.

Walking down the stairs to ground level, David retraced his steps to the revolving doors of the hospital's main entrance. With apprehension, he went inside. There was a bit of a line, which allowed him to simmer nervously in his thoughts, and at a time he considered just leaving. However, his feet were planted firmly on the linoleum where he stood. The florescent lights seemed to shine brighter every minute that crawled by, the wheeling of patients out, the walking of people in. A distinctive smell drifted through the air, laced with cleaning product and the scent of flowers soiled by these oppressive contexts.

He was spacing out, but realized that he was face-to-face with the hospital receptionist.

"What is your name and appointment?" inquired the receptionist.

"David Gilmour, I'm here to take a patient here into custody," said David.

"Wait a moment," said the receptionist, and began flipping through numerous pages on numerous clipboards. "Alright. Go take a left, past the D wards into the corridor, which will be signposted as the F and G wards, then take the lift or stairs to level three, where Ward R3 will be signposted, neuroscience. The patient will be in the waiting room, third one over on the left. Got that?"

"Yes," David replied, and internally sighed relief. He wasn't going senile, so that first outcome could be crossed out. "Thank you."

Leaving the front desk, he turned left (yet again), and walked until he reached the D wards, took another left down the corridor between D and C, and into the F and G wards. He saw surgeons with bloody latex gloves walking past, a woman sobbing eerily with her children flanking her in coordinated tears, maybe diagnosed with something awful. David, surrounded by this mournful atmosphere, was feeling even more tense. He took the stairs, wanting to delay himself longer, because he couldn't bear with himself if he was deceived. Up the steps he went, the noise of thoughts and fear getting closer and closer, the thing on the left three rooms down, he was going into that situation and never coming back. But he _had_ to look, he had to open the Pandora's box, he couldn't resist, especially with its counterpart of a predicament.

Heart beating, weakened by extreme nervousness, he came onto the last step of the stairs. This was the preliminary, he could turn back now, even if he had gone this far to peek.

He took the last step up, and he couldn't bring himself to leave anymore. Out stretched the long, white hall, and there it lay, the entrance to Ward R3. Stiffly shuffling, he opened the doors, which revealed three more doors and a doctor, waiting boredly. Upon David's entrance, the doctor immediately straightened.

"I'm here for Richard Wright," said David, with a shaking tinge. Was he even in the right ward? The right hospital? The right city? The right country? The right world?

"Ah, I see," said the doctor. "Our... unusual case. We found him in the mortuary body freezer, did you know?"

David furrowed his brow. "No?"

"Well, he had mysteriously replaced an anonymous patient with all this broken china in his face and hands and feet, bled out. That was already an unusual case within itself."

_Broken China._ It couldn't be....? But his doubts were dying off.

The doctor saw Mr. Gilmour and the expression of shell-shockedness that he had only seen in the split second he had to tell people their family member died (before it turned to absolute breakdown and grief), remembered that the patient was A. dead for twelve years and somehow resurrected, and B. this was a close friend of said patient. He quit being casual.

"I suspect you'd like to see him," the doctor suggested, but it was rather rhetorical.

"Yes," said David sharply. He was _not_ ready for either outcome- the split second of stasis before opening the box containing Schrodinger's cat. But he was diving headfirst into whatever mess it would be.

It was a moment before the doctor got up from his chair and opened the door, looking in.

"Here is your Gilmour," said the doctor, and he opened the door wider, suggesting that David should come in and take a look.

David hesitated, then followed the doctor in. He didn't want to look, he didn't want to see it. His eyes were staring at the rows of other people, waiting for their own custody, fortunate strangers. But he had to look at the long, white hair in front of him, and it drew his eyes down to a face, a face who he didn't recognize in a deep resistance to even think about the dead man, but then that gave way to memories and pictures and old songs.

_No... No way. THIS IS NOT POSSIBLE, IN ANY KIND OF SITUATION PERTAINING TO THIS CONTEXT._

David was in so much disbelief he wasn't aware the audible gasp he had produced. There was, sitting in a hospital gown, a memory in living flesh, eyes framed in eternal eyelashes, there was Richard William Wright, not an impostor or a delusion, but living, breathing. David's whole world fell down, and he barely managed to choke, "Excuse me for one second," before stumbling out into the main room of the neuroscience ward and crying a river, something that felt foreign and even harder to grasp than when the man he just saw died. What was this? Who was doing this?

At least he had the privilege, likely the only man in the world, to see a friend who had gone to the other side... and back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me an hour each to write the driving and hospital scenes. I took so much pain into making it accurate. Addenbrooke's is a real hospital, I used Google Maps and street view to drive all the way down the M11 and stuff. The Audi dealership exists. I got off the M11 and took directions to the hospital. When you get inside Addenbrooke's, those are the real directions to ward R3. I had to look through ALL THE WARDS to find the most relevant one. I also researched standard mental health tests. Still, I had to take some creative liberties... *sigh*.


	3. Meadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The premise of communication, established.

October 10th

Roger was in a deep, deep crisis as of now. Not insane like yesterday, but scared to death. What was this thing? Why was it doing this to him? What did he do to deserve this? Well, of course, _certain_ people had more than a thing or two to say about that... But get over it already, why don't you?

Besides that, all Roger's thoughts were booked, succumbing to fear and paranoia and over-analysing every little thing. He tried to calm everyone down on the Twitter platform who had heard the screams, he insisting it must've been a hacker and that 'we are looking into this (in reality, no one was, and it was only him)'. He found himself scatterbrained, doing one thing to the next without much planning or deliberation. He disliked this new method of thinking, but barely could squeeze that in before it drowned in a sea of anxiety. His life was now a slow descent into Hell. He couldn't, and wouldn't talk to anyone in person, exchanging faceless emails and voice calls with various people, but he couldn't stop thinking _Christ, Christ, Christ,_ _it's 2012 right now._ At least for him, and him only. He was too fearful to even imagine his deterioration (or reversal of entropy, rather) over the next few days, weeks, months. It felt like some horrible drug-induced nightmare. He was going to be nothing, he had to leave at one point or people wouldn't even think it was his property. He would be faceless, lack an identity, unless there was some kind of saving grace, someone who could explain this to all of him, tell him, please. But it wasn't like that. Here he was, alone in this empty house, unable to go anywhere or do anything. He couldn't trust anyone with this sort of thing. The house seemed to close in on him, until it was just him moving through claustrophobic corridors, rooms silent, mirrors vacant, curtains and blinds drawn. He isolated himself into an unused room, where he sat on the floor and stared vacantly, tides and waves of thoughts. He was tired of all of this. Whatever it was, it was happening all too fast, all too jarring and abrupt.

Nick was in some kind of liminal space in his mind. There was just... something _wrong_ with everything.

Rick sipped some tea. "Considering it's been twelve years, you don't look much older."

"My appearance is fairly consistent," said David. They were back in Wisborough, where there was an unraveling of events yesterday:

David could barely compose himself, he kept on quietly breaking down while they were driving back. Rick was _there_ , in the front passenger seat, but it seemed so unreal, and David kept half-believing that he was a ghost. But those eyes, they had consciousness behind the deep blue, the hands which had been on keyboards for half a life had twitched alive, the person breathed. David was embarrassed by his grieving, since Rick had no context between the twelve years he was dead and alive. The wound was raw, red and bleeding, healed after twelve years of absence and a long process of acceptance, only to have a burning hot knife plunged into it and dragged across it and a slow and agonizing fashion. Considering there were other wounds to lick, other losses to reel in, having to deal with this one was problematic. Not in that way, though. This was a good thing, a _really_ good thing, it was just incredibly difficult to realize and recollect, and be emotionally vulnerable.

David, internally, blanched at Rick's comment. So it was completely true. Especially coming from someone who hadn't seen him in twelve years. Should he admit his secret to Rick?

No... he would only tell when he began to question.

They stood out under an umbrella in the rain, David getting out his keys and unlocking the door. Polly skittered from her office. "Where have you been? It's been four hou-" She stopped immediately in her tracks when she lay her eyes upon the guest.

"Wha-?" her eyes were wide. "Is that-?"

"Hello, Polly," said Richard.

"I thought... he's dead, though!" Polly was incredibly confused. "Twelve years, and not a single breath. How?"

"We don't know," said David.

The tea was bitter and dark, but it soothed David's nerves. His indecision was getting to him. Should he tell Nick and/or Roger? Was it necessary, was it beneficial? It could certainly sew things up, but David didn't want to push reintroductions too fast on Rick. He wanted to give him time to recollect himself, adjust to the foreign world of a new decade. It would be pretty disparaging to wake up in 2032, friends you just saw "last month (or so)" crying into your shoulder or something, technology having substantially advanced and refined from seeds, culture as a whole more unstable and shifting, people who were _just_ alive dead. Floyd's relationships in 2008 were optimistic at best, but the median was iffy, especially talking between David and Roger. Now it was passive-aggressive hostility. David had come upon an interview between Roger and a _Rolling Stone_ reporter, and when asked about if the band might _ever_ come together (for the millionth time by any reporter, to be honest), Roger said something along the lines of, 'Fuck no! I wouldn't trade my liberty for those chains!", and continued ranting about Israel.

He hadn't talked to Nick in a while, either, but at least they were on good terms, so if David ever made up his mind, he would be the one to call first, and then they would discuss if or when to contact Roger.

He guessed he could call Mason later today...

Nick _was_ going mad, wasn't he? For the first time in quite a few months, David had called him and told him a shocking revelation: a... _specific keyboardist_ was somehow alive, found in a hospital mortuary freezer. David had taken _Richard_ to his house, where he was currently.

"We have to meet," Nick said.

"I... I'm not so sure," said Gilmour for whatever reason.

David had to steer the subject, and quick, before Nick started asking him about that.

"Should we tell Roger?"

"Well, _yes,_ why would you not?" Was Nick's reply.

"Um, because... Rick, despite the fact that twelve years have passed, only remembers as far as when he died."

"Could we talk, he and I?"

"Sure, wait a second." The phone was silent, besides a few indistinct exchanges between Gilmour and another voice that seemed to not be Polly. Nick had rapidly building anticipation. Twelve years... twelve years between last hearing Rick. Twenty-six between the Division Bell, but in 2008 terms it was only fourteen. He had vivid memories from the Division Bell, about the energy that flowed between the three. Could they possibly work together as a unit again? Nick was always up for that sort of thing, but David said he wasn't up for Pink Floyd after the Endless River. Rick could maybe work as some kind of adhesive, at least between the post-Waters trio, and at best, the whole band. Nick liked the Saucerful tour thing, but he didn't have a creative outlet to fill any longer, and the holes were there. Being in Pink Floyd was a thing that would never get old. 

The line picking up snapped him out of his thoughts. Adrenaline spiked between the second of silence, and a voice:

"Nick?" The voice was unique to only one person he knew. It was rare, special, and he thought he'd never hear it again live.

"Rick?" Nick's intonation spilled all the surprise he had, which flooded the other side of the phone into the ear of Wright.

They paused for a second, and laughed at the unintentional rhyming.

"I should be weeping tears of joy," said Nick. "But it's just... Wasn't that... funny- Um, I'm not sure what to say, except, how are you?"

"Alive," is the blunt answer from Rick. "It's very nice to hear from you."

"Yeah..." said Nick. He was feeling lightened, a permanent weight of grief lifted from his shoulders. No matter how one tries to get rid of it, it will always remain there, a black stain on a white shirt. You scrub it and scrub it and put it in the wash and pour gallons of bleach on it. It fades and turns grey, and over the years you can barely see it, but if one were to look closely, they would still see it. But imagine, one day it just vanishes.

"We should meet sometime," suggested Nick.

October 11

Roger got his saving grace in the form of a phone call from a number he thought he recognized, but wasn't sure. Despite the fact that people had tried to call him today and the latter half of yesterday when he had placed himself in isolation, he was dying for some kind of conversation today. In the isolation, he forgot the time and place as he hallucinated in the dark, sensory-deprived, and he passed out at some ungodly hour and woke up on the floor at seven.

Oh God, was that grey hair? Disastrous, undeniably not a trick of the light, unlike what he could say yesterday.

He felt relatively normal today, but was incredibly tired. He didn't bother to look in the mirror, fearing he would see something he didn't want to. The only thing he seemed to be able to eat was green apples, and was biting into his fourth of the day when the cellphone began trilling its default ringtone. Roger, whose only company had been his mad mind, registered this as someone trying to communicate with him, and he grabbed the phone in a blur and and answered breathlessly, "Hello?" It came out small and hoarse, because he had screamed his heart out two days earlier.

"Roger," said a voice over the phone, and it dawned on him who it was.

_Gilmour?_

"David? What- what are you calling for?"

David noted that the man over the phone sounded like he was in the middle of something and caught by surprise, and unusually passive without any omniscient-type remark.

"There's some... certain news you should hear." sighed the former friend over the phone, sounding tired as Roger felt. What was it now? What did Gilmour want? Did somebody die, or what?

"What is it?" Roger asked, throat hurting.

"Well, it's hard, impossible to believe, but, uh...." Gilmour trailed off as if he was reconsidering divulging Roger in information.

"Do tell," Roger pushed.

"...Do you really want to know?" delayed the ever-frustrating Gilmour.

"Yes, _just tell!_ " insisted Roger in a bout of impatience.

"Richard is alive," was the reply, and all of Roger's annoyances melted with confusion.

"Do you have dementia?" hissed Roger.

"No," replied the guitarist, who was likely mentally ill if senility hadn't already caught up to him (Well, it had before this). "They found him in a corpse freezer, alive. It makes no sense, but he's here at my house."

"You should go see a psychiatrist," scoffed Roger. "If you're thinking Wright is alive, you could have schizophrenia."

" _I don't,_ Roger, I am a perfectly sane person (unlike you, David almost said but realized that would cause further tension), and if you'd like to talk to him, I can consult."

"Off the deep end you've gone," sighed Roger. "Call me when you have proof."

"I will," David said in a neutral tone. Roger was still a spiteful, snarky personality, and he hung up as fast as he could, wanting to get away from the toxic commentary.

"Would you like to talk to Roger... for common courtesy?" he asked Richard. The relationship between the keyboardist and ex-bassist/lyricist was rather sour, being that Roger kicked Rick out of the band when he was depressed, and Roger had never made amends.

Rick shrugged and said, "Okay."

The phone trilled yet again, and Roger picked it up.

"Have proof, Gilmour?", he said boredly.

"Er... hello, Roger," said a new voice over the phone. It was electric, like a building had suddenly fallen in a bustling city, blowing dust and burying everything underneath. The blandness of the everyday life suddenly came with something brand-new, something unknown and terrifying, something that would never be obvious.

"Who are you?" Roger demanded. This could just be someone who sounded like Wright... it was hard to determine over the phone, but it could be heard, the embers of the distinctive accent that Richard had.

"You should know by now," said the voice. "David told you already."

"Truth be told," said Roger. "You sound an awful lot like a certain keyboardist I knew." He was only parrying, giving himself some time to think, batting the birdie back in a game of badminton, or the tennis ball in a game of tennis.

"Lovely you think that, but I think I'm breathing, so you better change that incorrect grammar of yours," the phone replied. "Past tense is no word for someone who is alive."

"Well-articulated words," replied Roger, silver tongue back in service. "I'd reckon you're a poet." The words were merely a defense for his real emotions. Inside, he was having another crisis, and if you were there, you could see he had turned deathly pale, and was looking around the kitchen in a paranoid fashion.

"If you have pictures, I'll accept," Roger continued, sounding casual (his body language was the direct opposite).

"M'kay," said the voice. "See you, Georgie."

That was a strange exchange, right then and there. Roger was feeling feverish. If this was a joke, it was cruel, but what was the meaning behind it? Roger appreciated Richard, admittedly sugarcoated the memories of the keyboardist a bit since he died, but he wasn't a friend or anything, especially after joining the band again after Roger left, and they didn't even get along that well _before_ the band began breaking down. Richard was a stranger to him, and he was a stranger to Richard. So what did it matter? Gilmour could've hurt worse with Syd. But if this was legitimate news, well, that would be a milestone in proving some kind of supernaturality. Well, it was already proven, considering that Roger's hair was gray today. So why would this be so hard to believe?

A few minutes later:

_Gilmour_ had sent him a text, a video attached. _You asked for it._

It seemed to be shot in Gilmour's house, the camera down at the floor, when it slowly panned up a figure, the face coming into view. It was the familiar Wright, wearing all white like an angel... or a patient in a sanitarium. He was looking into the camera. Roger wasn't immediately floored because this could just be old footage. Until Wright began to speak.

"Hello, Roger. You asked for a picture, we gave you a video. I know the date to be October eleventh, isn't that correct? I mean, that's all."

Roger would have to be braindead to not be floored flatter than roadkill. _This_ was it, wasn't it? Unless it was someone who looked and sounded exactly like Richard Wright, which was impossible unless if he had a secret twin, but that was unlikely. That mannerism of his was the same, talking without teeth showing, and his eyes were framed in a woman's eyelashes. It was the same old dead man, but somehow alive. He bit the apple hard in contemplation, and decided to call back.

_October 12_

It was officially ten years that had been turned back. Everybody (except Rick, of course who was waiting somewhere in 2007 or 2008) had began to get worried. At this point, if you were updated on current pictures of them, you would be questioning what happened, at the very least, and at the most, you'd already be generating piles of conspiracy theories or possibly your demented brain would spawn weird fiction from the depths of hell speculating rapid-reverse-entropy. But nobody saw them, so none of that happened. Not that the press or the public cared, because no one who had ever been in Pink Floyd currently had scheduled any kind of appearances, so that was convenient. But as the hours and days receded, they felt a certain kind of itch to go out there and do something, music-wise. But it could be considered mild, minimal.

Polly had her suspicions, but it was no time to deny it anymore. She didn't want to confront her husband. At first, it was his slightly erratic behaviour, where he became more quiet and withdrawn, and then it was where he would sit in a corner for over an hour in one of the rooms, usually when she was writing. She would go looking around for him when she was done, and find him in the broom closet staring at the bleach or whatever. He had no explanation for it, except 'I just felt like it.' Then, she began to notices changes in his appearance. He looked younger, she thought. And then he brought home a living corpse, that being Richard Wright. This corpse conversated and smiled, bringing back memories of _The Astoria_ and she spending long hours with David writing lyrics for the Division Bell, and when they were together, the other two David had known long before her, Nick and Richard, were suspended in the background. But then she had watched as they played, and realized she could be irrelevant to the long life story that David had, a mystery to her. Having one of her own compromised for that, though. She was no Mrs. David Gilmour, she was Polly Samson, she had lived in a whole other world than the United Kingdom, a nightmare of Chinese war and orphanage, and a dream of journalism and publishing. And she had spent many of her days with David, and not much longer was he with his rock n' roll friends. But she had a feeling that that could change all too soon. She began writing nondescript people in a short story, idea sparked in her head...

Nothing was sacred, Nick resolved. He had to get over it, whether it be that his hair was now vaguely sandy-coloured, or the fact that a band member had come back from the dead. He was suspicious, regarding the fact that David was safeguarding Richard, however Rick said himself he'd like to meet up. Was it fear? Was it selfishness? Or was it entirely something different? Or could it be a predicament in semblance of Nick's own? David would never tell him, unless Nick admitted it to him. And it couldn't hurt all too much if David knew, anyway. Nothing was sacred. Nothing was sacred, and he would tell.

David received a call. It was Nick's number. David picked up.

"Hello, Nick," he said.

"I haven't told you something..." Nick paused. _Nothing is sacred._

"What is it?" David inquired.

"It seems I've been... I'm not sure, aging backwards?"

"What do you mean by that?" pressed the guitarist.

"Well, um, if I were to tell you I'm under the visible suspicion that I am aging not forwards, but backwards, would you believe me?"

"Loads, it can't be too hard to imagine after Rick," said David, not sounding surprised at all. It was a rather flat exchange, and Nick heard David sigh over the phone. "Well, that means you and I have something in common."

"Really? You didn't tell?" Nick was surprised that he had guessed accurately.

"It gets me awake 'til three in the morning, the worry, the paranoia, that I might never stop, I could be a baby in two months' time," lamented Dave. Nick had never thought about that... exactly how fast was time going in the wrong direction?

"I mean, good luck to you, good luck to me," replied Nick, clueless as to what to reply. "....Maybe Roger, too?"

"No, he was the same bastard over the phone when I called him," David countered. "No sign of anything. Lucky him, he doesn't have to suffer like the rest of us, whatever our particular reasons. Not to cross you with sour remarks about Roger, but he _does_ deserve it more than any of us, and yet... nothing."

How could David be so sure? Not like Roger hadn't ever concealed his emotions before... well... Maybe. The friendliest way to describe it would be _he spoke his mind a lot_. But a disconcerting and private matter such as watching your hair turn grey... years coming back in an encore, chasing the years ahead of them past and through and up and out, some kind of (maybe) perpetual cycle until the people with all those years accrued had been wasted to single-celled organisms, then nothing.

"Can't be so sure," Nick echoed in thoughts to Gilmour. "If it's _"coincidentally"_ happened between us, it could've happened to anyone, especially people associated, strongly Roger. He might've not noticed it yet, or he has, and is just effective at masking whatever he feels. Roger becomes a caricature in your eyes, and so do you to him. You both tend to overlook things in your spite for each other-" He stopped himself, realizing he had accidentally continued his thoughts out loud. "Never mind," he waved it off, as he reconsolidated and marshaled his thoughts in a single-file line back into his head proper.

"Well?" David said, breaking a long pause, suggesting a resolution to the call.

"I don't know, that's it. Maybe we could arrange a meeting as to what to figure out. I'll just be here. I'm not getting any older. This is goodbye, right?"

"Yes, I do believe," sighed David, and the call ended. Nick was left there in silence.

October 13th

5 A.M.

Roger couldn't wait any longer. He had already run out of apples, had acquired acute insomnia. He still dying to get out, go somewhere, be honest, not care, but _he couldn't_. He had waited too long and crossed the threshold of coincidence and suspicion. Now, he was doomed. He had to contact someone personal, but not too personal, and not someone who'd he burned bridges with, and that would be dear drummer Nick Mason. He anxiously punched in the number (as much as you can punch in a number on a flat glass screen without bending or breaking it) and prayed that Nick would pick up, or Roger would melt into the floor for another eight hours and waste another day, another year of age, having a mental breakdown. For an old man, he had too many since October second, being that he was on the cusp of his third if circumstances were unfavourable. The longer the phone's dial tone went, the worse his mental state got. The moment he approximated the phone might've stopped calling, relief poured over him as the line picked up.

"Hello?" the voice of Nick had never been more crisis-averting.

"I have an urgent problem, I need to tell someone or I'm going to go even more mad than I already am," Roger nearly slurred his words together as they spilled out.

"Roger? Are you okay?" Nick sounded concerned, obviously,

"No, and that statement wasn't melodrama," Roger wasn't talking with much thought or deliberation. "I don't want to embarrass myself by sounding too specifically senile, but my hair has turned to grey from white. It's not any kind of illusion or trick of the light, I swear." He waited for a question and not a response, Nick wouldn't know the context.

But a response was given that was a statement: "So you're aging backwards?" On the nose, hit the target, bullet in the brain, nail on the head, and it was stated more like a rhetorical question than a guess.

"How did you know?" Roger cancelled any kind of meticulous approximations of his predicament that he was going to rant to Nick in an innuendo-type fashion.

"We have the same issue, you and I, with a side dish of David," Nick answered. "It's not much of an individual thing, and as David said, not much of a surprise considering _somebody_ decided to rise from their grave. We may just become obsolete nothingness, and Rick will be the only one left."

"That is rather depressing, and you have just delivered a nice hot soup of existential crisis to my door," Roger said. Otherwise, he was thinking less about this thing causing a loss of identity and more a _Oh GOD, I could die by becoming an embryo and withering into nonexistence_ kind of fear.

"You know, I suggest you come over to the U.K., if you don't want to be stuck there all alone in the U.S. with no one recognizing your passport photo," Nick suggested. "If you want to be be with us, the people with your problems. No time to waste, Roger, or before you blink you'll be recording _Ummagumma 2._ "

"I better get going, then." said Roger. "Packing and all." This plan needed to be executed immediately, Nick was right about that.

"I hope you get through the passport people," said Nick. "See you."

"See you," Roger replied, and hung up. He suddenly found himself skittering around the house, gathering the bare minimum and throwing it all together: the little black books with his poems in it, the bag with the toothbrush and comb, occasional bone, elastic band keeping his shoes on, swollen hand blues, thirteen channels of- never mind.

The laptop was flung open and the cheapest flight on the most obscure airline in the JFK was selected, very back row seat. In the blink of an eye, he was at the JFK, taken by ride service. The driver had tried to chat him up while a radio edit of Comfortably Numb played over him. Ha, ha ha. Very funny, world.

"I really like Pink Floyd," the driver said. "But I'm not one of those freako-obsessed fans who stalk them over everything, I barely remember how they look like."

"Pink Floyd were designed to be anonymous, the stage productions overshadowed the band members themselves," Roger baited along.

"Oh, so you're one of _those_ fans," laughed/scoffed the taxi driver.

"I'm not a fan," sighed Roger. "I just know a lot about it from working with them."

"What exactly did you work in?" asked the driver as they were pulling up to Terminal 7.

"Oh, a roadie, not a member of the band," Roger was grinning with mischief. "Worked with them from '66 to '85, then I left. Name's Roger. Roger Waters."

"Well, it was nice to meet you, Roger," said the driver. He looked over in the backseat. "Is that a guitar in that case there?"

"No, bass. I play bass sometimes," said Roger. "Got to fill in a couple of gigs from when the bassist broke down, for whatever reason."

"That's pretty cool," said the driver. Roger paid the driver his fare and left with his things.

The driver's interest was piqued. He heard of the roadie named Alan whose breakfast-snarfing gave Pink Floyd the idea to create a pretty nice composition around it. Maybe there was some more stuff online about this Roger Waters, so he looked it up.

The driver just had to laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey I like David Bowie


	4. Daffodil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A.K.A Horse doing a On The Run thing, mainly from Rog's PoV

October 13th, 5 P.M. EST

It was hard blending in, especially because he just happened to be a hundred and ninety three centimetres tall, very malnourished, with evilly dark circles under his eyes and shining silver-and-darker grey hair, and he was constantly pestered by the thought of _what if they're taking pictures?_ and other things. He had given his case to the baggage drop-off, and they examined it suspiciously like it was an assault rifle (the outline superficially resembling one) and given it tags. He just wanted to get on that airplane and sleep, the feverish and sore feeling of sleep deprivation in his eyes. The lines were tortuously long, as all the times he'd been to JFK. An airport was merely a liminal space, but it had all its charms and tricks, a city's last gasp of trying to get you to be a consumer, and then you were off in the air, away from everything. Airports were homogeneous in feel, no sign of a city's atmosphere. An airport was a universal terminal. He hadn't left Bridgehampton in a while, so as in all airports, it was a bittersweet feeling of a precursor to nostalgia mixed with an excited anticipation. More lines involving passport verification. This was the daunting moment, the true test of ignorance the verifier had to take in order to let Roger through. He did figure, however, in his decrepit state he looked aged by the multitude of factors, but that was only temporary. If it wasn't for that, he'd be given suspicious looks and maybe be 'figured out' (there was no figuring out to be done, it's MY problem and not yours). The passport guy scanned the passport and was squinting at the photo, tilting his head and looking down at it, then looking up at Roger, in a pigeon-bobbing cycle that seemed to last for eternity.

"Alright, you're through," he said, and Roger was finally in the international terminals.

Travelling was still novel, not in taking a private method, but the public air transport rituals, from security to wandering around the shops between terminals, screaming for your money, and sitting in the terminals themselves, chairs always metal-frame with black vinyl or leather. Security was a long wait, and the same anxiety that builds up- oh, they're going to arrest you for having a knife, or a gun you didn't know you put in there. And then getting through that, the senseless smattering of absolutely useless stores whose irrelevance to flying was mind-boggling. Why would you have put a seafood restaurant in the airport when people are trying to get to Belize or something, let alone the fact that seafood could cause food poisoning? Do you want people puking mid-air? What is the point of getting pe\rfumes or makeups right when you 're about to go to Slovakia, or worst of all, a (insert any variety of word used to exaggerate exasperation) _suitcase_ when you're in an AIRPORT going ANYWHERE, you Alzheimer's-ridden twat? Too late for that when your flight to China is boarding in thirty minutes! What infuriated him more was that there were legitimate people mulling around inside, who might as well be soulless robots or braindead mind control victims, falsely advertising for the luggage store. Roger didn't have time to stare lethally at Samsonite stores, however, and was going to have to get into his gate. Flight from John F. Kennedy on Aer Lingus , Terminal 5, layover in Dublin, immigrate to British Airways, to London Heathrow. He sat there at the gate, waiting and did nothing but watch the people walk by, their little lives and talking amongst themselves, and he could only wonder where they were going, a family reunion, off to do field research, or maybe a funeral. And he looked at the children and the frail old women, older than him, and he wondered what they had been through, a different past than his.

Roger would like to keep it a mystery. It was bizarre, all of this, everything, even in the homogeneous, universal, constant liminality and flow state of an airport, even at haunting times at night. Airports were not part of the world, they were all gateways, eyes to portals, consumerism, chaos, people running late, a bustle somewhat like the city, but unsoiled by human business or emotion. Airports were not towns, cities, or villages, they were something entirely else. Once you got past security, there was no turning back, you had entered this plane beyond existence, ready to travel with your bags packed. Roger had gotten a one-way ticket, there was no way he was coming back to New York any time soon with this issue.

He grateful nobody caught his eye, recognized him, or took photos. He was reading an old Nat Geo magazine from May he had found somewhere in the airport, going on about the rapidly declining population of insects from the 70's to the present. It was interesting, but he was focused on society, nearly never ecology. Subsequently, the words passed through with dispassion. Filler for the time.

_But I've got no time to kill..._

Unbeknownst to Roger, absorbed in the magazine, there was a young man parallel to where he was, staring at him. He was one of _those_ fans. He knew just everything about the Floyd, from how Nick Mason sounded like singing (The Merry Xmas song and a version of Scream Thy Last Scream, not too bad of a singer), the darkest depths of r/pinkfloydcirclejerk, to all of Roger Waters' screams in the discography (a lot of songs). When he saw Waters, he internally gaped. It's him! He's there! Right there, the man, the myth, the keyboardist firer! The man was enlightened.

Roger didn't know that a cesspit such as r/pinkfloydcirclejerk even existed, so it remained unbeknownst to him, nor that someone had taken a picture.

People began to file in at the terminal markers, and the different classes were let in from top to bottom- first, business, economy. It was a bit of a crowd, but Roger made his way to the back and sat down. Of course, it didn't accommodate him, and his knees were practically drawn up to his chest. But he was grateful, because all he wanted to do was sleep, and sleep he did.

* * *

Roger had woken up to the change of pressure as the plane began its descent into Dublin. Well. It was all perfect, a dark October morning with no sign of a sun. A night flight, stars barely glimmering, blocked by the courteously dimmed, yet still harsh lights of cabin and the intermittently blinking wings of the plane. It was around six, and there were clusters of city lights- not like Roger was ever going to see those lights up close. He'd be trapped in the liminality of the airport until he could get on a plane and leave it. Everything was too liminal since October 2nd, and there was no turning back, he realized, and that these days were numbered, and soon he'd be dead, or stuck without an identity. Soon, this liminal phase would come to an end, and he'd have an end product. But what it was, Roger wasn't sure of.

He had slept a normal six and a half hours, somehow on a plane, more than he had in total in the past four days. It was interesting how the tiredness had totally reversed, and though his eyes were irritated by the "harsh" lights, he was ready to roam the airport end to end and crash a 747. The plane was taking an unusual amount of time to land, it seemed from the inclement weather. Roger spent an hour of his layover waiting for the plane trying to align itself with the jetway. The sun rose behind the clouds, the grey illuminance soon made everything visible: there were attendants and baggage carriers and passengers and pilots all scurrying along dangerously, and of course there was the Dublin Airport itself, which had quite nice architecture, but being an architect student half a century ago and no other entitlement to the profession, Roger had no other comments directly about it.

But airports were made to be like modernist glass-and-steel palaces, imposing and beautiful, yet all had some kind of commonality amongst themselves, as people did. But airports were not human, they were simultaneously beyond and below it. The popular feature between them all happened to be lattices, whether bending or curving or at the wrong angle or straight, triangle, square, diamond: it didn't matter. The lattices were usually disguised as ornamental instead of structural, though the ornamental application of it did make the airports aesthetically pleasing.

Roger got himself to wondering what would've happened if he'd become an architect. He'd be a completely different person, of course he didn't want that. An oblivious life to live, but what would that version of him get to thinking of himself. He'd probably be a half-hearted hippie for the briefest moment, and probably done obligatory societal things: get a job, get married, have kids, die... in a boring way though, he had already done the first three (the second four times already and not even currently, how fruitless) in this reality. The fourth _was_ previously on the horizon for him, kind of the distant horizon (ha) because he would know he was dying when he didn't have anything to say anymore. Maybe not...

... _Why am I contradicting myself so much_? But now, something was pulling him away from that end place, or he had gotten to the horizon and realized there was just more sea. In the end, horizons were not the end, but something new.

'We apologize for the delay," said the pilot over the speaker. "Due to high winds and heavy rains that are making the runways slippery, we had to take precautions in landing. The current time is seven-twenty. If you're coming back from America, welcome home, if you're visitng, welcome to Ireland. If you're taking the layover from here to London Heathrow, we hope you'll get a good impression from us and come visit sometime. Welcome to Dublin." He proceeded to repeat it in native Irish. The flight attendants began coming around, and people began getting up from their seats, getting their luggage and bags and getting out. Roger, in the very last row, was the last to do so, except for a certain red-eyed young man who had stayed up all night stalking Waters as he slept, thinking in cycles 'wow wow wow wow wow,' and then 'he's a narcissist, though, and then, 'is he trying to be discreet or something by travelling in the very back of the plane in economy class?'. The man unknowingly could foil Floyd and uncover their secrets, oblivious about the _specific_ reason Roger Waters was in economy class in the very back of the plane. But this is where he was stopping, not on a layover to Heathrow, so he armed himself with a picture and a compulsively taken five-second video, rather very stalky and feeling guilty, but someone had taken a picture of the ex-Floyd member on a subway in New York. Of course he wouldn't show anyone _his_ stuff... maybe. Maybe he wanted karma or clout or something, but it was more like 'I found this guy in a plane, it's cool, right?' He felt like paparazzi, but he _was_ taking professional photography in college... nevermind.

Roger _did_ walk from end to end of the airport (through both terminals) multiple times, only to pass the time, watching all the people as he walked past and they walked past.

_Strangers passing in the... airport_

_By chance two separate glances do not meet, I'm just staring at them_

_And let me make it clear, we do not have any kind of connection, I'm just looking_

There was a sad deli-looking place barely populated by anyone looking for breakfast, apples were a euro each and the cashier had a very quizzical look as Roger slammed five down on the counters and said, "Do you take American money?"

"Yes," said the cashier. She pulled up a calculator from behind the register. "That will be... six dollars and sixty-three cents.

_Outrageous! You can get double that for half the price in the market. Fuckin' euros, 1 to 1.20 ratio._ Whatever. He purchased the apples like someone in a math equation and left.

The cashier didn't see anyone with him, just that haggard man compulsively tearing apart the apple after apple, cores and stems and everything in the terminal nearby. The last interesting thing she had seen was when a bird got in somehow and caused an orithnophobic to panic and scream, causing havoc and delays. This scene was unusual and amusing, made her day after a boring droll of the past few weeks.

Roger, not five minutes later, realized he had polished off his supply of apples. _That for six sixty-three? What a scam_. He sighed and wondered what he would do for the next two, three hours in _broad daylight_ without being noticed.

October 14, 11 A.M. GMT

They met at a small cafe down in South London. Though mostly gentrified, it still had a few obscure, shabby, yet charming patches, and that's where they hid out. The place was Portland Cafe, on Portland Street. David and Rick had been waiting for a few hours now, having spotty conversations and drinking coffee and tea, expecting Nick to arrive soon. David couldn't help but feel happy, even in his existential crisis that he could be dead in two months, the lot of them. He realized how much he missed Richard, and he hadn't seen Nick in a long time, either. It would be the three of them, just like the old times, for now. It felt like the simultaneous combinations between bittersweet recollections while making the Endless River, and the creative, flowing energy and living-in-the-present-moment feel of the recording of the Division Bell. Friends past reunited, he had gotten over his shock and was living in bliss and fear. He found himself listening to every word Rick was saying with rapt attention, looking at his every expression. Someone to be admired.

Nick was here, in South London. He was on Portland street. Graffiti decorated the streets, pet shop, tandoori place, utility, countertop sales, Caribbean... ah, there it was, to the left. He pulled over and parked parallel to the curb. There it was, the Portland Cafe, modestly advertising breakfast-lunch-dinner, 'eat in, take-away, 'All meals home-made!' in enthusiastic colours and fonts. Nick got out, and briefly stared at the green-framed storefront before going in.

Rick and David saw the entrance turn into a gaping void into the outside world, shoving through that void was Nick Mason, who looked around the nearly empty cafe before his eyes lay upon the two men sitting there at a table in the dark corner, staring at him cordially. David gave him a short wave, Rick just blinked.

Nick stood there, frozen in disbelief. He had a minimal amount of doubt, but that was a vocal minority, and was purged by the appearance of Rick. Nick could not grasp the gravity of this situation, which was so bizarre and warped that, if it wasn't reality, he'd be inclined to think it was a dream. Well, those were two contrasting things, so obviously.

It was a lot more obvious in Nick, being that his hair was nearly black in some areas, David observed. So it wasn't only him.

"What's with you two looking like you didn't age at all?" Rick lightly inquired, clearly happy to be reunited.

"Oh, it's nothing," said Nick. "We are eternally, graciously beautiful."

They laughed like polite English gentlemen do. But there was an undertone of fear, not felt by Rick, for he was oblivious to the problems, and wasn't experiencing them himself. It was going rather smoothly, considering he had woken up twelve years in the future where, he was dead, and it was good everybody didn't fall to their knees and cry. Well, at first, but then, it's just easygoing. The solution was less socially expected, less proprietary but more emotionally stable, to accept the situation as it is. Nothing is sacred, not even Death, and no one was going to be silent and awkward around someone who died twelve years ago. Rather, it was more of a 'welcome home' kind of thing, instead of keeling for a god of alienation and solemnity. They chose to think of it like Rick had gone on a trip where most people didn't return, because life was so nice there... or something.

"So anyway," Nick said, "Roger's coming over to London."

" _What_ -?" David caught his surprise and tinge of outrage. "Why?"

"He called me in a kind of panicked state, said his hair was turning grey and it wasn't a trick of the light," Nick sighed.

"It's between all of us then," sighed David, drinking his coffee. "I mean, not you, Rick."

"What do you mean?" Interjected Rick. "Is there something I don't know here?"

_Nothing is sacred._

"It sounds unusual to mention so casually, but we've actually been aging backwards, don't mind us," Nick smoothly responded, however in a hushed tone so nobody else could hear.

"You've been _what_?" Rick squinted, trying to process what he had just heard.

"Aging backwards," said David, feeling jittery. How many cups of coffee had he had? He wasn't sure if he had one or four. "I think that's why we don't look like we've aged much to you. But it's been rather traumatic. But I don't really feel like caring, it's on an inevitable path now. I think this started on October second, making it chronologically 2008. A perfect intersection, yes?" He turned to Nick. "Anyway, what were you saying about Roger?" Of course, David did care, and was aware of his possible mortality, but didn't want to worry Rick.

Rick wasn't sure why they were being so nonchalant about all of this, but he just let his confused cogs turn and continued listening to the conversation.

"His flight has a layover in Dublin," continued Nick. "It's... 11:27 right now, he should be boarding at 11:45 to get to London Heathrow. He said he was going to arrive at 13:15. He's going to take the airport train to the Paddington station, and I have to pick him up, but we can chat it up til then. I'm not sure if he wants to see any of you _or_ you. I'll talk to him about it, and we can arrange something from there.... Off the subject, how's the coffee, Dave? You don't look great from drinking... your fifth cup, is that it?"

"I didn't notice," said David, who was looking flushed and pale from a significant amount of caffeine intake. "I don't feel so great from that... how does one negate the side effects?"

"Don't know. Ride it out, Gilmour," Nick was amused at his bandmate's plight. Rick tried to look neutral, but the other signs besides an upturned mouth indicated otherwise.

It was nice to live in this moment, though it was strange. The waving off of death coming for them (maybe), and the drink (excess amounts of coffee) and be merry regime held up. Though the three were toiling in turmoil in their own thoughts, they wouldn't ruin this moment- not for the others, not for themselves.

They all chatted it up as if nothing ever happened, and everything was okay, but this led to cross-suspicion. Of course, they already knew each other's secrets, but they couldn't bring themselves to talk about it, and they were wondering why the others wouldn't say anything. They were caught in a perpetual cycle of normal conversation, instead of addressing the problems, they ignored them externally and battled them internally. They were invisible, lurking right under a thin surface of cordiality. For now, they could laugh at David's coffee problems, but since he was the youngest out of all of them, they wouldn't be laughing when they watched him fizzle out of existence... possibly. Then, it would be Nick next two days later, and then Roger. It could stop at one point, the other alternative, but where exactly? Would they all be stuck in an ungraceful middle age, or where they were still wearing psychedelia in suit of Syd, or as children (horrific, to say the least)? Or _now?_ Nick was betting his chances it would stop day by day, but it only continued to worsen, this being the twelfth of them. He wanted all time to stop so he wouldn't have to see it.

Nick was on some kind of monologue about cars, and the other two were only half-interested in them as he was, and when the minutes began to blur to the sound of Nick's voice, the others were left in their own thoughts. David was wondering why Nick would ever _think_ to include Roger. Of course, for ethical reasons, but he'd rather have it that he be left all alone in the U.S.. His feelings about Roger hadn't changed much, despite he was struggling with the same problems. What he had done in the past, _that_ was unethical, that made them bitter. Rick was more willing to not hold grudges, because he wasn't sure how Roger had changed, and if he didn't, if he changed in this new situation. David was mostly rigid in his thinking.

"What's Roger like these days?" He asked David, Nick seeming to be self-hypnotized and faded out of the conversation.

"Worse," replied David. " _Still_ milking the Wall, but he's also still obsessed with the liberation of Palestine.

"Oh..." sighed Rick. "I was really hoping he would have changed. If there's nothing new there, _is_ there anything new?"

"He made a new album, Is 'This The Life We Really Want?'. Still politics and even has a Palestinian sex poem in it."

Rick smiled a bit. "Roger, the same old Roger... not that it's good or anything. I'm just waiting for that wall of his to fall down."

"Yes, it's gotten a bit old..." sighed David. "Starting in 1979."

"Wore out its welcome, extended its stay, will not leave," synonmynated Rick.

"I wish it would," sighed David. A sudden thought struck him, all the way from his last birthday in March. It was a perfect intersection of thought, connection, presence, and memory as David recollected the events. Children. Wife. The cake and candles. But the wish was most important... It could be the wish, it could all be David's fault... not a fault, maybe, since his wish was granted and sitting right there, but he could only cringe imagining some fever-dream, real-life scenario from Rick's The Night of A Thousand Furry Toys.

13 P.M. GMT

Roger was, yet again, in the very back of a plane, simmering in his thoughts. The plane had run into a storm, so the plane had ascended above it, and clouds replaced the typical green of the English countryside. He had begun to have thoughts about the person next to him, being that he could _feel_ the woman staring into his soul when he wasn't looking, and she made it very obvious that she was staring by snapping her head back directly to front when he had her in peripheral vision. He was _trying_ to read _A People's History of the United States,_ but it was incredibly hard to digest the obscenities early European settlers committed against Native Americans when a twat is boring holes into you! He had pretended to ignore her for the entire flight. He didn't think she was specifically staring because she knew the Floyd, she was also doing it to other people. Did she have anything else better to do? Soon, she was scribbling things down in a notepad, ripping out page after page after page. If there wasn't _another_ fucking delay, Roger would be relieved to get off in fifteen minutes, but since they elevated, it would take a longer time to get down, _plus_ MORE terrible weather. You bastards, why did you congregate _now?_ That gave her more time to psychologically torture everyone with her awful acid staring, looking like she was mentally probing and picking their brains.

_She_ was minding other's people's business. As a psychic, she was practicing reading their minds. And she had just read the person's mind two aisles over, reading the airport magazine. And then the rants of the child of how bored she was, but that's because she wanted to... choke her parakeet _unconscious_ at home again?! That mother had to be notified. The old lady wanting to see her TWENTY FOUR cats (she had almost laughed), but she was really worked at a pet shelter. First came the thought, then the context. But the most interesting mind was the one directly next to her, the sixty-something, starved to death, and very political-minded guy next to her. He had the superlative memory bank and wealth of opinions, to scrabbles and... the recent memories were very disturbing. _Is he mentally ill? That's not right..._ Cool. He was in a rock band (note: was), she didn't care much about that kind of thing. Jazz was much better. He was mad, mad all the time, mad at everything and everyone, including her. _Piss off!_ , is what he was thinking. ' _I can't fucking wait to get off here so that woman won't stare at me anymore,'_ and other thoughts that intimidated her. Still, she pretended to be oblivious to all of this so she could keep on filing through his memories. Jesus, look at that one! Five apples for six and a half dollars? That was unethically overpriced. And... multiple mental breakdowns, floating through the void, man, what made your life so tumultuous? And that main fear, the man was suffering from a delusion that he would fizzle away into nothing... wait. Hold one minute.

She hung up the mental receiver as she stared straight towards the back of the seat in front of her. She saw him give her a reproachful look out of the corner of her eye, then resumed reading _A People's History of the United States_.

We're back on, folks. Anyway, it seemed his delusion was actually a real worry, a possible outcome, but she could tell it was mandated to end at a certain date. She wouldn't tell him directly, just needed her pen and paper. She began scribbling down cryptic innuendos, as she was not allowed to write directly what she had read, in the laws of psychics.

The plane landed at 13:25, and Roger was _ready_ to get the fuck off. For the whole one hour and forty minutes, he had tolerated this woman's staring without any confrontation. He was surprised at his own abilities of self-control, considering that in a normal situation he would've been passive-aggressive or directly told her STOP. He didn't want to make any impressions, though, not good ones, not bad ones, just invisible and nothing at all. Get through and never show your face again. The woman was getting up to leave, finally, but was staring intensively at him. He was not looking back, rudeness kept internal, but if not for this, he would stare straight into them and make her dissolve into dust. She got out her baggage, and was going to leave, when suddenly, she tore a note from her pad of paper and gave it directly to him. This time, he looked straight up, straight into her eyes, and _he_ withered into dust, those being so penetrating it hurt, like looking directly into the sun. He blinked harshly. Those journalists from NME who never blinked were _nothing_ near this.

"Take it," was the only thing she said. He took it, and she left briskly. Now, what was that all about? The paper itself was nothing special, office-yellow with red lines. On it was scribbled:

_"Yes, I did read your mind. One temporal cent to twenty-five cents in, you need a dollar, but you're finding more change. Also, though you're used to pearls, mustn't grumble at silver, and that old copper version will last you a lot longer. Maybe it'll smooth that really sharp corner of that stone that cuts everyone, but I'm not too sure. Soon, we'll stop on Route 66, with the leading into conducting for 2/4 time as well. If you think you're going to become dusty, don't worry, the reverse gear will come unjammed, you can go into neutral then and that sweet car wash. Will, will (was that second will capital W?) will go down with the rest of you. Queen of the Highway thing never happened between wives. Spring will become alienated when it turns February for you all, when it was literally just July. I don't like Pink Floyd. Cannot foresee future past that.'_

_Someone_ had a stoke while writing this. It hurt his brain just to read. Did it even have a meaning, or was just cryptic-sounding? Mustn't grumble at silver... and gold. However, it felt as if it was tainted with some kind of omniscience, something not right. Nothing was right about anything anymore, why make it more wrong?

He looked up briefly, saw that the plane was nearly emptied of passengers, and he realized he had to get out. He took his bag and left, the flight attendants staring at him ominous gazes, like they already knew what was going on.

"Was that Roger Waters?" one of them murmured to the others after a half-minute of silence. As devoted fans of the fabulous Floyd, they knew the answer:

"No," sighed a female flight attendant. "Too young, grey hair."

"What if-" one of them tried to speculate, but the third interrupted- "Don't even start with your ramblings, Anthony." Promptly, Anthony shut up.

But 'Anthony' could only wonder, and be haunted by it.

He came out of the jetway into the familiar Heathrow Airport, still united with the other two by its latticed ceilings. Terminal two. He navigated to passport control, down from level 3 to level 1. Another year gone from another day, and he guessed it was even harder for the guard to _not_ tell the difference this time. His anxiety was bolstered by waiting in an obscenely long line, thinking _oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no_ or whatever was a synonym of that, many times and in all the different ways, all the different ways it could go wrong. So, when he was finally confronted with the task of giving the border control person his passport... he did it and was internally dying. _C'mon! You can do it!_ , he screamed in his thoughts. _Be ignorant and accept the superficial resemblance!_

The person at the border control let him through with a slightly suspicious look, and Roger realized he must have appeared disparagingly desperate, or slightly crazy. No matter, he was through.

In the first time in a day, Roger sent Nick a text:

'Flight delayed by ten minutes, no big deal.'

He _is_ alive, aha.

He was waiting for the baggage claim belt to come around, lines of suitcases but no guitar case. It seemed to close in, narrow as other people got their suitcases and left. Where was it? The brief moment of isolation was punctured by the black case coming around, and he didn't know what caused it. With case in hand, he went towards customs.

As expected, the line was long there, too, and that somehow made him worried about _customs_. _Customs,_ of all things, even though he had two primary items, one which you couldn't even fit anything in it, and the other had barely any thing in it, anyway. _So that's what it feels like to have chronic anxiety... I already hate this._ He was losing authority over himself, over the situation. And it was instinct. He couldn't convince himself to calm down, it was _If you're not careful, you're going to be found out_.

"Please insert your passport, "a robotic voice said, and he nearly jumped. He had been unconsciously shuffling along in line, and hadn't realized he was already at customs. He scrambled for it, and put it in the scanner. It identified him with his name and passport photo, taken, luckily, six years ago (being that one had to renew their passport every septennial cycle), saying 'IS THIS YOU'?. _Nope._ He had to verify yes. Then, there was a virtual declaration form on this station, and he proceeded to fill that out. It reviewed his declarations. This was a tedious process indeed. He then merged with another line, to wait for the customs officer...

How long was he going to wait?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> u/kitkatsrh0mo44 is not a real Reddit account  
> I have done extensive research on flights


	5. Sunflower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2008- Little girl screaming foils intricate plan. Roger messes up. Existential crisises come into play, horse figures something out, and there's continuous awkward silence.

14:05 GMT

Roger went down another stairway leading down to the London Underground, fruitlessly trying to blend in, just as he had at JFK. He had passed customs with little flaw, except another one of those ' _What is up with your demeanour?'_ looks directed at him. So, here he was, in the open U.K., free as a bird... not.

He had to get a ticket to Paddington Station, where Nick was going to pick him up. So, he was purchasing one of these tickets, and he remembered that weird paparazzi thing where someone had taken photos of him in the New York subway. General non-consensual photos made him very uncomfortable, and this fear was heightened right here and right now. He was just repeating the same thoughts over and over again, fear, confusion, and discretion were not intercepted by a single positive emotion. Why him, out of all people? Seven, almost eight billion people, and he was plucked out to do this. Not that he'd wish it on anyone, not even the capitalist pigs, who would brag about it and see it as a good thing, extending their oily reigns, or turn to dust..

_Hey, wait a minute._ A thought fired off.

' _If you think you're going to become dusty, don't worry, the reverse gear will come unjammed, you can go into neutral then and that sweet car wash.'_

Perfect sense, or something completely different. But if, and the fact it all fit together... so when would that reverse gear become unjammed? Or was he going to fetusize and eventually dwindle to a single-celled organism, then nothing?

He was in an awkward moment of another line. Worse yet, in public, where anyone could stare at anything, with hawk-sharp eyes scrutinizing. Where the people were more variable, when it was inevitable that somebody would bother him, or stalk him, or take photos. It was paranoia, unrelenting and harsh. He didn't want to find out for himself, so he kept his gaze at the ground. Old, unrecognizable pieces of half-chewed gum smothered to black by the grime under hundreds of shoes, litter, and general filthiness that populated below all the people. Unseen and ignored. The ticket machines sat there in rows of lines, some people roped in to taking the expensive-as- _fuck_ Heathrow-Paddington Express, which was an overpriced trip of fifteen miles in fifteen minutes. _What else could you have done with those twenty-seven pounds you just shelled out for one ticket? Donated to cancer research? Given it to a homeless person? Buy your wife some roses? You fucking idiot, graceless as an ungainly pigeon, that's why you take the TfL Rail._ He fed six British monetary units down the slotted throat of the machine (having used an exchange service after he got through customs), and it spit out a card and British change. He quickly got himself out of that situation, making other people wait. It was so _hard_ to be around all these strangers, and he could barely stand the mere thought of the risk of being intercepted by somebody, inquiring him of his identity, especially because he was carrying a conspicuously-shaped case. Maybe he should've thought that out better, but he needed _something_. Why not a guitar? Not sure. He was plastered against the lacquered bricks of the subway's walls, waiting for his train.

And while waiting, something disastrous happened:

There was a little girl and her mother passing, and the girl seemed to be staring at the wall as she passed it by, possibly mesmerized by the patterns, chatty and rambling about whatever to her mother. Directly when she passed and saw Roger minding his own business, she let out a shrieking, high-pitched harpy scream and began crying.

"Mommy, that's the man from my nightmares!" she wailed as she hugged her mother.

Roger wanted to die, right here and right now, vaporize in a bloody mist, become a pile of ash. He had never been so scared by something in his life. Now _everyone_ was unmoving, staring, the mother was completely consumed by a red face, and trying to wave it off. Time warped and stretched, and the moment seems to melt him as a million eyes sent their alarm, disdain, and confusion towards the shadow in the corner. The woman was trying to shoo them off, and slowly, people peeled their gazes from the scenario and kept on moving, the flow returning. Shit. People would remember that. He had tried _so_ , _SO_ hard to go unnoticed, and yet all his deliberations were a house of cards compared to a quintarian's awful ear-bleeding screams and primal fear of a random stranger

"I'm sorry," haughtily apologized the mother, American accent, looking over her shoulder to see if there was any ocular stragglers. "I was watching this DVD with this guy on concert, um, and my kid came in, and she thought he looked frightening- she has lots of nightmares-" she looked back and at him, and suddenly absolute surprise overcame her.

"No relation," he said before the mother could say anything, "I get it a lot."

"Oh! Um, yeah..." she trailed off and tried to smile, awkwardly. Her daughter was hiding behind her, seeming to be reciting... The Lord's Prayer? Roger was almost inclined to laugh, but his soul had just been crushed by a subwayful of disdainful looks, he couldn't feel anything but terror and embarrassment. His train came in fifteen minutes. With a train coming in now, and the mother and daughter left.

'Maisie!' the mother hissed as they rode the train. "You know that you shouldn't cause a ruckus in any kind of space with lots of people, especially another country!"

"But Mommy, I knew it was him, he had those evil blue eyes, and, and was scary!" the small child argued feebly.

The woman knew it had to be him, though, same voice and everything, but she had to lie to her fear-stricken daughter.

"That wasn't him, you know how I look like Auntie? Sometimes people look like each other without being sisters or brothers."

"The eyes," said the kindergartner in wonder-intonated horror. "Nobody has those evil blue eyes but _him_. I see them when I'm sleeping, it's evil, so evil, like the man sinned in front of God himself six-hundred-and-sixty-six times and then licked the feet of Satan for a zillion years!" the child shouted, casting her arms up in the air.

"Maisie, come here," she called over.

The woman thought that her daughter being a Christian was a good thing, but her overbearing parents had maybe indoctrinated her a little too much, and were causing problems for her mental health.

"Maisie," she said as she put the five-year old on her knee, "God isn't real."

A lot of people involved in the fresh incident were gone in the last train, but some still remained, darting reproachful looks at him.. Some were bothering him, but for the less expected reason.

"How's your day going?" a man was leaning on the wall, wearing a garish, solid lime-green raincoat, squinting at Roger's muddled features and trying to make out something clearer.

"Nowhere," sighed Roger.

"So... you're just going to stay there all day, or what?" asked the neon perpetrator.

"No, catching the next train," Roger replied. "Going to Paddington Station."

"Oh, cool, maybe we can sit together!" said the person, who was making himself to be as obnoxious as what he wore.

"No, your coat makes my eyes burn," slipped Roger, failing to keep a neutral state.

"So you are alive," concluded the borax-flamed pest.

"No," said Roger. "I died when that girl mistook me for Roger Waters and hurled a scream into my ears so loud. I nearly went deaf."

"Who's that?" inquired the glowstick parka.

"Nothing," Roger said a bit too hastily, and this compelled the man to whip out his phone and take a look on some miscellaneous search engine. Roger couldn't do anything about it, but half-hoped something would happen..

"Well," the compost-bin poncho-donning bastard said after a few seconds, "The resemblance is superficial."

_Oh. Good for me._.. _maybe._ A pause in thought followed. _Oh no. OH NO._ Roger began panicking, because _that_ meant an entirely different problem for him: It was too late for him, he couldn't tell anybody because no one would believe him. Besides Nick, Nice was the only one who would believe him...

The man in the hideously coloured raincoat said, "Um, just so you know, I'm not wearing my glasses, I'm really short-sighted."

So he wasn't out of the 'being recognized' bog, this guy was just a prolific dunce, apparently. The man fumbled around in one of his coat pockets, and fished out a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, also an eye-burning shade of neon. "It was the only shade they had. I actually hate neon green, but whenever I plan to buy things in advance, they always mysteriously run out, like the only ones left in stock are neon green. Green is the colour of luck, apparently, but it's caused me more than one date, showing up looking like a traffic light. I rarely wear my glasses in public."

"Travesty," said Roger. That was barely a problem, would you like to be a mewling infant or less? He watched as the inevitable glasses were put on the inevitable face, looking at the inevitable pictures on the inevitable person that _was_ Roger's old self, and that self being compared to his inevitable present. As said, it was inevitable that someone would bother him, and recognize him.

"I have changed my previous statement," said the man in a frank tone. "Now I have to ask, are you?"

"I told you, I get it a lot," hissed Roger. "I'm not some random musician from the seventies."

"Then what about that case? If it's not a guitar, it has to be a gun," Roger wondered if he'd turn green instead of purple if he throttled him.

"It's not a guitar," said Roger, which was half-true. _Don't push your luck, you're already a disaster in chartreuse._

"A bass guitar, may I say?" Well, he knew already.

"No," Roger said. He was running out of ideas for this, excuses were limited.

"I bet," the a piece of walking cabbage said, "It's a bass guitar."

"I'm done with you," dismissed Roger. "Please leave me alone."

"Okay," the man instantly lost his nerve and left, he had turned red and not green.

_What a waste of my time_ , Roger thought.

Some people still lingered, not talking to him, fortunately, but staring their _what the hell did you do to that kid_ look. However, they were diluted by new people over the next few minutes, unaware as to what had gone down.

Roger languished in the subway, among the sea of faces, there _had_ to be people staring, he just didn't know who or where anymore.

The rumbling of the underground indicated that there was something coming, and that was the train. Now, this was daunting, because you're not only in a space with a lot of people, but you're packed shoulder-to-shoulder like sardines, and some have nothing better to do than look around at everyone. He knew this, because that's exactly what he was doing. Businessman reading the Guardian, woman on laptop with an openly furious expression on her face, mashing the keys _very_ loudly- does that guy have a fucking _parrot_ on his shoulder?- that baby is only that quiet because it's been chloroformed, thank God, and what seemed like the neon green man's counterpart, a girl with a poppy-orange raincoat, to name a few. There were all sorts of odd figures here. Were you even allowed to take a parrot on a train? What if it goes mad and starts swooping over people's heads?

He sees some people looking around, as well, and for the briefest moment, he locks eyes with one of them and deflect sight off. Nothing here to see, just regular... regularity.

Being in the transit created an awkward sort of tension, Roger in the whirlpool of anxiety and worry, thinking about the neon, and how he could tell people, or the possible mind reader, and how she could tell people. They were slip ups, mistakes, should've never happened.

_Living in lies by the railway line_

_Pushing the hair from my eyes_

_Elvis is English and climbs the hills_

_Can't tell the bullshit from the lies_

Nobody likes transit. These aren't trains, trains were archaic a long time ago. This was a convergent evolution, two-point-o, designed for the same purpose, but unrelated. Railway, train cars, rapid public transport, that was what both of them have, but trains are a much more personal experience than these rapid-transit systems. These are down-dirty, where you're slotted next to a total stranger that might've committed murder, but intimate. Roger often heard people rant about how they had to take the NYC subway "Every! Single! Fuckin', Day!" (often intonated in exasperation). Roger took the subway sometimes, it was a questionable experience, but maybe enjoyable? Trains are segregated, but these are often not, and it's bizarrely antisocial, even with all these people around. A bit like airports.

The train began to slow down, and stop. It was one out of six before getting to Paddington, this being Hayes and Harlington. Some worry was left behind and some replaced as people got out and new ones came in. For one, the people leaving were leaving, meaning he wouldn't have eyes boring into his soul, but they could also disperse information like a communicable disease. The people coming in were oblivious, but the more variable the population, the more likely it would be that someone would know him and interrogate. He felt like a criminal with WANTED posters all over London, with an accurate estimate of a forensic sketch to accompany, but no proof of appearance. Whenever would he get there, home and dry and out of the rain, a bird caught in a gale?

14:40 GMT

The Piccadilly had passed along varying landscapes, from dying scarlet leaves trees of fall, to underpasses providing second-long umbrellas from torrential rain, and cast shadows that rendered darkness. Down into tunnels, plunged into black and streaking, bare lights, and surfaced for a long gasp. Drab concrete, brick and tinted windows passed by, reflecting the clouds and dimmed light from them. The railway was separated by a wall from some houses. Roger had been reflecting on times long past, things he hadn't done in a while, and from the revoked thoughts arose something mysterious. Fleeting, transparent images, flashes of those eyes, and haunting reflections in the train window that were not of the train's interior, but of green grass and the lens of the photographs, the snaking River Cam, and wearing ridiculous clothes in carefree times alongside three other men, the lens of the camera, feeling like _he_ was behind the camera, crushed under the weight of those eyes with endless depth to them, but simultaneously alongside four other men, one who was only half-there. These memories were from a long time ago, something he wouldn't have remembered if casually thinking. David, his childhood friend, showed up in the unlikeliest of times, where he was designated to stand in for, and eventually replace Syd. Roger could _feel_ the blood on his hands, warm and sticky and staining everything, smelling of iron, and the guilt on his shoulders, which he thought had at least been partly resolved. But seeing hazy half-corporeal visions of Syd and company brought back so much, and the fact as to how close they were.

_But everything has changed. It was inevitable. Gilmour and I, we're no longer friends. Syd is gone. Rick... Rick is somehow back, but I would have said he's gone, too..._

Roaming through the Harrods department store, seeing that drifting figure, and hiding, denying that he was still there, the man he knew, but merely a shell.

He was confused by the conflicting emotions and feelings of his past and present self, and Syd's acoustic drifted in his head, and he thought he caught snatches of it somewhere in physical hearing, but it was all part of the illusion, the palace of memories he had built. The psychedelic era, as it was called, came with all its wild and vivid senses. The bright colours, the spiritual-bullshit readings, seeing people staring out into space, tripping like nobody's business, their palace, albeit less attractive when they started vomiting and pissing all over, and/or screaming like maniacs. And Syd.

_I loved you like a brother. We all did._

All of a sudden, the numbing view of thought was replaced by realities, that of a vast platform with high and wide, ribcage steel-and-glass roof, arching into the sky. The iconic Paddington Station, the heart of England's rail transit centres, had intruded and signaled for him to get out of his half-trance state. Here he was. After all this travel, there was a sense of finality to it, this was the end of Act 1, and all this travelling and stress and paranoia would stop. He'd finally see Nick, and it would be okay. His perceptions on Gilmour had bent just a bit, and it would be at least tolerable to see him, if he was really going through the same predicament. Then a discussion would be acceptable, instead of avoidance, or arguments every time they tried to talk. The memories resurfacing had alienated him somewhat from his current personality, he saw the old affluence and geniality between everyone... that just didn't exist anymore. So he was uncertain, so what? Get over it. Gilmour's probably never going to. The wound has been ripped open too many times, it's now necrotizing and oozing. It wasn't below Roger's dignity to try and sew the disgusting. black, and partially liquefied mess back together. But it wasn't really his fault, so why should he even try? It was beyond his patience threshold, beyond his motivations. It was beyond saving, unless something supernatural happened.

_Um.... Well, then, what a coincidence between analogies..._

The train was slowing down, and it was about to stop. Roger had seen people come and go, and he'd be one of the many leaving now. It reminded him of past friends, drifting in and out of his life, and he was about to drift out of someone else's, with everyone else. He watched as people got up from their seats and went out the door, and he knew he was going, too.

_It was nice knowing you_ , Roger thought to the train. But that train had a deeper meaning. His entire linear life was being left behind, everything that had gone was behind that train. But he was already transitioning out of that last life before it ended. And so, he followed the others, into the skylights, into the new future. Just because it was new didn't mean it was optimistic, but rather imposing and confusing. He couldn't control it, the car was already crashing, it had already intersected with the truck, and he was in that split second that he felt the slightest impact before it turned into a full-force collision. So there he was, frozen, with the wheel in hand, car nudged a mere five degrees, the truck about to turn him and his auto into scrap metal and mangled body.

And he stepped over the small gap between the train exit and the platform, and knew he could never go back. The truck was crushing the car's passenger side, glass midair about to pierce his brain like a bullet. And time would slowly move into death, a mere second a day. And the barest of fractions of time moved with every step he took towards his meeting point. It was Platform 2, and he crossed through the ticket verification section, two of them divided by an unnecessarily planted coffee shop. _More_ useless consumerism. He took a right and passed an information booth, took another right, ignored another coffee shop and and festering construction, fucking _McDonald's_ (universal capitalism), and then took a third right. Freedom! The open air and all, the smell of... pollution. London, especially right smack in the middle of it where his sinuses were located, was notorious for its poor average air quality. However, it was mostly suppressed by rain and the ozone that came along with it. Roger stood under the overhang of the station, looking for Nick. People passed around, with coats and umbrellas, and some individuals with the unfortunate soaking wet clothes and hair. Not him, not today, he had an umbrella.

Where was Nick? He had told Roger to meet him "somewhere on the right side of the side pick-up" by text, not very specific...

The noises and bustle faded out, only to be replaced by muted isolation. Thoughts flailed like dying fish, beached and glimmering, gills pulsing but unable to extract oxygen from the water because there was none. What was he doing? Was this just a schizophrenic delusion, was this all his collective consciousness, and he was sitting in a vegetative state at a nursing home somewhere, was this reality all just Syd's, who desperately wanted to be a pop star, then got drug-addled, created a fugue state where he was... was someone calling his name?

"Roger! Roger!"

_Which_ Roger? Roger Barrett or Roger Waters? Was Syd coming out briefly, and Roger's consciousness going to be absorbed into his... _who_ was Roger Waters, and why was he here?... Roger racked his brain... what...?

"Roger!" repeated again, and then Roger remembered the context. He looked around, a dripping look of confusion residuent on his face, pulling his expression to one side to re-orient it to neutrality. It was Nick off behind him in the crowd, trying to get his attention. Roger turned around and gave him a wave of acknowledgement. They walked briskly towards each other, mixed expressions of joy and surprise and confusion apiece. Roger's tension subsided, and his nagging paranoia of ' _It's a ploy'_ faded as he immediately noticed Nick's dark grey hair. Finally, he wasn't so isolated, so stranded. Even if it was just _one_ person, Roger wouldn't have to watch himself die (in reverse, and either literally or by identity) alone... and then it dawned on him that Nick would die, too, and he felt regret for thinking that.

"Oh, um... Hello, Nick," said Roger. They made a few suggestive, but deflecting gestures. "Should we...?"

"Yes," Nick said, and they loosely embraced each other. Separating, Nick said, "So... how's your day been?"

"Strange. Very strange," sighed Roger. "The amount of strange occurrences in the past week have been unparalleled."

"I can see that," Nick said, "And same for myself."

It was an awkward silence, the two had not spoken in a while, thinking what to say, besides anything related to the elephant in the room.

"So... you can verify Richard's alive?" Roger started, to both of their relief, addressing the giraffe in the room, because it wasn't only an elephant, but a _whole fucking zoo._

Nick nodded and smiled. "I saw him with David at cafe. It was so nice to see him again, especially because he's supposed to be, you know, deceased. Do you feel up to meeting them, or no?"

"It'd be nice to see Rick," said Roger. "But I'm not sure of David's tolerance threshold. We are "mortal enemies", (gesturing air quotes) after all. I think I can get over it, but you'd have to ask David if he's able to shelf it for now."

"I'll do that," said Nick. "Now, if you'd like."

"Yes, I'd like to meet our dear dead keyboardist sooner than later," prosed Roger.

The phone was ringing. It was Nick, presumably with Roger. David picked it up.

"Hello, Nick," he sighed. "Have you got any news?"

"Well, yes," said Nick. "Roger's here in the car with me, and he'd like to know if you're up for meeting with Rick."

_So Roger puts aside his differences the moment I don't._ "Sure," Gilmour said, contradicting his thoughts. He put down the phone for a second, and turned to Rick. "Are you sure you want to meet Roger?" he questioned.

"Yes, it'd be nice to see him," said Rick.

David turned back to the phone.

"Yeah. Should we meet back at the cafe, or... somewhere else? Rick and I were just walking around."

"The cafe would be fine," said Nick. "It's rather inconspicuous, anyway, and we're only 20 kilometres away."

"Alright," David said. These conversations were brief and inorganic.

"See you," said Nick, and he hung up.

Pink Floyd, reunited for the first time since Live 8. The four of them, fifteen years on and off in various combinations, but never all together. It was for certain nobody had seen Rick in twelve of those fifteen years, so a definite _no_ to a full reunion. And nobody would know but an oblivious waiter or waitress, or a drifter, taking place on an obscured street in South London. The sky was low and pouring, the air cold and fresh. The two of them had been admiring the scene of South Norwood Country Park. David was internally consumed by memories, watching the waterfowl swim by and raindrops drip from leaves, thin and brushlike poplars bending in the wind, which hissed and whispered. These old and sentimental memories came to him, from twenty, thirty, forty, fifty years ago, all the things between Rick and he. Rick was a close friend, and it cut deep and bloody when he received the news. There were all these things looking up, and they all came crashing down. He couldn't quite equate his actions to the elongated complex of joy and grief that came up every time he reminded himself of Rick, who was sitting there, looking wistfully over the small pond, so invisible that David felt if he took his eyes off him, the man would vanish into the winds. This moment was like a summery memory, or a dream, he was here, and Rick was there, and somehow things were going to turn out okay. Things were delicate, fragile, like intricate but thin china, ready to shatter into an infinite number of pieces if dropped mere inches from the ground. It was a few minutes' silence between them.

Rick wondered what Roger was really like. He trusted David, but the man seemed biased; long feud with Roger spanning four decades. It would seem consistent that Roger didn't change, the last time Rick checked, he was playing Wall shows. But twelve years, even with consistency, were nothing compared to the chaotic twelve days that the other members of the band were going through. Roger, he knew nil about Roger as of now, what he had done with himself. He could be going through the worst out of all of them, who knew? Rick was willing to empathize, forgive him if he had changed, even within these twelve years, twelve days, if he had changed yesterday, an hour ago, minutes or seconds before their eventual encounter.

He was anticipating this, as well as Nick, who had only greeted him briefly, before moving on to Paddington Station. He liked the notion of the band meeting, all together, with a purpose other than altruistic or monetary, but inter-relational, a direct confrontation with disconnect. Though it was dubious; anyone could easily break out in hostility, and this the others' plight- if it didn't stop, they'd die, and Rick would have to watch them deteriorate and dwindle. It would be awful. Was this his fault, for coming back from the dead? It wasn't on his own will, though, but he still felt he owed some responsibility in all of this. He enjoyed life much better than being dead, which he couldn't remember, and it had felt like a night's sleep of being plunged into an eternal freezing void. So he appreciated living, even in the cold rains and sharp wind, because it was indescribably superior beyond bounds to... nothingness. The most terrifying thing he had ever experienced, mind a blank, no spirit, no thought, no body, but there was some vague distortion or outline that indicated its presence, like how a black hole warps space-time, despite the fact it was invisible. Did he still have cancer? Did it put him at the condition where Death was lurking around the corner, ready to kill him silently in the barest of struggles? Suddenly, he wanted to get away from all of _that_. It was likely a 2007 for him, whilst a definite 2008 for the others. Maybe this would stop tomorrow for them, equating proportionally with Rick, or he would begin to follow _their_ trend? No, can't think about that either. There were too many roads, too many branching paths, but only one would lead to the real outcome. Was that outcome predetermined, or was it all depending on the circumstance, or perhaps Rick's thoughts, or the others' actions, or-

"We should get going now," said David, who fished Rick out from drowning in a whirlpool of his own thoughts. Rick needed the company. The two men got up from the grass and opened their umbrellas, which spread wide and black, like a in a funeral procession. They left the pond behind, and emerged out of the reeds, through the tall grasses, and onto the gravel path. Taking the left fork, where they had came from, took it straight out of the park, and began walking on the sidewalks of a suburb lining a street, straight, crossing the street, more straight, took a right past a gas station, and into Portland Street, and then all the way past the semi-dilapidated businesses, and across the street. There it was, next to a heavily vandalised wall, with some kind of shrub looking like it was trying to claw over the it it and spill into the street.

They entered. The cafe wasn't empty, nor was it Nick and Roger. The family there took a glance and resumed eating their incredibly greasy-looking English Breakfast... at fifteen o' clock. Likely American tourists, who... yes, were talking in American accents.

They sat down in the cafe for the second time that day, waiting silently and politely. David, still having flashbacks from the coffee earlier, didn't order anything, nor did Rick, leaving the atmosphere undistracted and quiet. Did it really take that long to drive 20 kilometres? Through London traffic, maybe. The longer they waited, the more they thought, and the more they thought, the more worried they got. What if it all crumbled, even in this time when they had a common goal, and they remained estranged? What if they just couldn't tolerate each other? This was mainly on the topic of the long feud between Roger and David, which was the weak link in their chain. They couldn't directly discuss it with the two, because they were never around together. But Rick resolved that if they began fighting, he would have to intercept and discipline them. In this situation, it would be incredibly selfish and ridiculous, intolerable to a point where "the quiet one" had to speak up against them. But he hoped, because they were men and not schoolboys, that it would _at least_ go okay. Rick would prefer less tension, because they were likely to be uptight in proximity to each other. But he couldn't control what David and Roger thought, so be it. He could try, but it was less than guaranteed he would succeed.

They parked next to this shabby little cafe, framed in navy-painted metal. Inside, apparently was the future, something whispering, something swarming. The life he had left behind was long gone, on a train back to Heathrow, where his ghost was wandering, retracing its footsteps back on ethereal planes and past airports made out of memory. And back it would go, across the British Isles, back across the Atlantic, back across all the places he went in New York, back past tours and back past the decade, and another, and then Rick's leaving of the Earth, and then way back when the millennium meant racing to the light, where there was future, and spiraling down into Amused to Death, Berlin, speeding past all the Radio Kaos and lawsuit, and dashing down the parkway to the The Final Cut, the last stand between him and the others, falling down mountains in Berre-Les-Alpes, tumbling into studio arguments of the Wall and all the contrivances and writings... and then gliding like a swallow past Battersea, nearly hitting Algie, in that transitional phase between one state to another. Then, the state of the flow changed, musically and interpersonally, from jagged to smooth, as feelings arose of content and creativity, but also melancholy memory, and Wish You Were Here walked into the scene, memories of writing about, and seeing Syd, letting him listen to Shine On, and hear him say, "It sounds a bit old." Then, it was a leap across another divide, another cavern, to the Dark Side of The Moon, where there were endless reels of tape running, playing all kinds of sound effects, the VCS3 sequences, Roger staying up all night in the studio while the others went home, writing lyrics and merging concepts, eventually passing out somewhere in the early hours of the morning. Somersault over the excursion Household Objects, they worked tirelessly on it, and the only thing that came out of it was a sample for Shine On. Various objects lay scattered around the studio, saws, sines, meat, boots, you name it. Shuffle into Obscured by Clouds, writing his first song of many about war and death, and singing it in an ironic tone. Echoes, the breakthrough, lengthy and thematic. Back, back, Ron Geesin with Atom Heart Mother Suite, Alan, Ron again for Music of the Body, and down a hole into darkness. Incessant screeching noises for Several Species of Small Furry Animals Gathered Together IN A Cave, not his proudest moment, but go down some more, and- He hit the wall at A Saucerful, mentally slamming into bricks, unable to go back any further, but peer through a small crack. What exactly did this mean?

This happened in a fraction of a second, and Roger realized that he was in front of the 'Portland Cafe' with Nick Mason, and yes, the future was waiting for him in those windows. He hung around the door nervously, out of sight. He could run away now, be a drifter forever, buy a new identity on the dark web (possible), or straight-up kill himself. He wouldn't have to do any of this, he'd already lived an okay life... but he still had things to say. He thought of their disappointment as they watched him flee through the glass. Roger felt like a deer walking from the forest into a car's headlights, being stuck forever in the illuminated beams as they came closer and closer at top speed. The glass had penetrated the driver's skull, about to pierce the brain. It's was too late, anyway. He flung the door wide behind him, and stepped... steps inside. Inside, his eye catches Nick, who is sitting down at the table, and two faceless strangers, waiting, who turn to look at him.

David thought Roger was being pretentious by waiting a few seconds to get in the door, but realized... realizes as he steps inside that he is merely straggling. The man, who is usually bold and brazen like a rooster, shuffles in like an injured cat, holding himself like a wilting plant. Despite the fact that he's somewhat younger, he's exorbitantly and startlingly malnourished, features sunken in and pale, fingers skeletal. _What the hell happened there?_

Admittedly, Nick couldn't mention it to Roger, or ask him why he looked so bedraggled and thrashed. Everyone is silent, for all the wrong reasons. Roger is staring wildly at Rick, in a kind of half-hearted shock.

Roger is puzzled by what he sees, which is Rick Wright, dead for twelve years, and in a haphazard existence, looking back at him in a kind of surprise. But he was expecting this, wasn't he? David looks taken aback, disturbed, maybe? _Why would you even, it's just me, get over it._

"Hello," says Roger in an attempt to crack at the silence.

The only sound is coming from across the cafe, where the family is leaving.

The peacock in the zoo displays its garish tail feathers, that being that the two men are staring at him bleakly, but for what? Nick looks nervous. Are they not receiving him well?

"What's the problem?" asks Roger, realizing that his posture was reflecting his warring thoughts, and arranges himself into composure. "Go on, spit it out."

They shrug. In reality, Rick is horrified at how exorbitantly and startlingly malnourished Roger looks, features sunken in and straight out of the gutters. Yet, silence permeates, and Roger stares them down. Rick wonders if he should say something...

Confused, Rick whispers to David, " _Is that how he always looks like, or is there something wrong..._?"

" _Something definitely wrong._ "

" _Does it have to do with an anorexic trend?"_

_"I think so."_

They part.

"Nothing," says Rick. Does Roger even _notice?_

Roger wasn't sure what they were whispering about, but didn't interrogate as to keep tensions down. "Anyway," Roger said. He sat down at the table, looking down on the other three. "Wot."

A firm silence stood its ground.

Was everyone looking at _him_ now? Two pairs of eyes crush Nick. What should he do? Often the diplomat, he doesn't have anything to say but,

"I don't think anybody has anything to say, really."

Rough quotations of agreement arise from David and Roger, Rick shrugs.

"Or are we too afraid to address the problems in the room?" Nick touchily inquires, looking at them from a three-quarters profile.

Freeze frame. The elephant is blocked by a deer, but Nick's trying to spear it. David and Roger have ambivalent looks, twitching nervously. Rick mentally steps out of the way; _not my problem_. It's clear nobody wants to talk about this, but otherwise, what is the point of this meeting?

"I mean, we should probably go somewhere else, not in public, to discuss this. Do you know anywhere?"

Soon, the four are under the rain in South Norwood Country Park, languishing under freezing rain in the shade of their umbrellas and stout trees, and are oppressed by Nick's opening of the massive can of worms. There is little communication, besides Nick, who is trying to urge them to say something.

"I know we're all anxious... and maybe going to die in a couple of months, but never mind _that,_ unless if you have something reassuring to say. And I do, not exactly in the most helpful way, but at least we can make up for all of this. We already have come this far, this close, so why not? We are in the same situation of isolation. And what has happened in this time? Nothing, because you don't want to talk about it, whether it's because you're at odds with each other, it's too embarrassing, too violent and sudden, whatever. I can see, you're all very clearly nervous. Open up."

They look like they want to say something, but can't bring themselves to.

"I don't think... we're going to die," says Roger, abruptly. "This woman on the airplane was staring at me the whole time, not saying anything, staring into my fucking soul or whatever, and she gave me... this long note afterwards..." While talking, he digs around in his pocket and pulls out a note, yellow with red lines. It's written on the front and back, and Roger hands it to Nick between two fingers. Nick receives it and reads it. It's some kind of random jargon, starting with, ' _Yes, I did read your mind.'_ It's difficult to process, but Nick can tell it's a string of metaphors. What kind of metaphors, he's not sure, but with that _reverse gear_ and number: sixty-six, gives him a vague idea. They were already past age sixty-six, so... oh, no.

"Nineteen _sixty-six_?" Nick exclaims aloud. A clamor arises. "Our lives are definitely going to be ruined."

Everyone peers over the note from the psychic.

"Unless if it was just some made-up thing," says Rick.

"I don't think so," replies Roger. "Real annoyed by her, and then she just knows _everything_."

"At least we're not going to die," sighs David. But inside, he's screaming. _Nineteen SIXTY-SIX?_

"Well, _I'm_ glad I don't have to watch you all die," comments Rick, and then jokes, "...Maybe I can be your manager."

Multiple _nos_ , and swearing that they, despite the situation, would not go into music again. "...Well, I'd maybe be up for it," admits Nick. "What are you even going to do, become a French teacher? A politician? A photographer? A producer? You have no identity other than the one you do."

"It's possible to buy fake ones," proposed Roger. "Or just have aliases."

"Our identities will be gone, so shouldn't we tell... the government or something, before totally disappearing into nothing?" Nick wondered.

Ah, these tricky matters...


	6. Ivory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bob gets the brunt of the baked beans. Random literary litter is brought to light, and Rick is tortured by socialist values and an acute obsession with seagulls.

**_(N E O N B L O G number one hundred and forty seven- October 14_ **

_One of the strangest occurrences happened to me yesterday. I had just come into the London Underground via Terminal 2 of the London Heathrow airport, donning my brand-new and sadistically embarrassing neon green raincoat (it's raining heavily in London), and I was buying my ticket. I had almost gotten a Heathrow Express ticket, and realized that it was really, really expensive, (twenty-seven pounds, or nearly thirty-five and a half US dollars), and so I opted for the alt, on the Piccadilly line. Whilst I was absorbed in this, some kind of altercation or random reaction had happened, and in this subway, I heard the most primal, vicious, and earsplitting scream. I was scared out of my wits, and along with everyone else in the subway, we as a hive-mind snapped our heads towards the center of it all. Putting on my glasses, I processed this unearthly visual sight of a trembling kindergartner cowering behind her mother, who continued after her decadent scream, proclaiming in a warbled garble, "Mommy! That's the man from my nightmares!", face distorted into some gross saliva-ringed abhorrence that only toddlers wield, a skeletal old man petrified at this sight. The mother was going to die of embarrassment, the daughter of fear, and the old man looked as if he wished he had had a heart attack at that moment, so he could excuse himself and die. We all stared at them, they staring in a triangle at one another, the time was lost, and people trickling into the subway were caught in this web._

_This frozen moment was shattered by the mother, breaking us up like the first rays of a morning sky melting a river covered in a sheet of ice, and the flow returned. The subway began moving again, the mother and her daughter leaving, I took off my glasses, and decided I was going to interview this guy. I slowly snaked through the crowd towards him, and easily found him because he was right next to the wall, aura of I want to die still present. Me, being an insensitive reporter, didn't care, and began my interview. He seemed kind of dry, no sense of humor, but I made him crack, and he told me my raincoat made his eyes burn (of course). I concluded he was alive, but he countered that he died at the screaming girl, who accused him of being a Roger Waters. I wondered who that was, and interrogated him. His reply was, of course, very suspicious, and so I couldn't resist._

_Of course, he was a Roger Waters, and he told me to go away. I left._

_Some perpetually high friend of mine had shown me something a few years ago, Several Species of Small Furry Animals Gathered Together in a Cave and Grooving With A Pict (had to copy and paste the full name). Chance was, I was listening to that for kicks, and was looking at the credits, wondering... and what do you know, the man I met made that song, the abomination that has forever left a stain in my life....)_

October 14th

"David, I know what's happening to you," says Polly as she taps a mechanical pencil on the table, staring down at her journal of notes. She looks up at David, whose eyes flit up, startled.

"What do you mean?" he asks, tone of panic overriding nonchalance. Richard, his formerly dead (and still loyal) wingman, blinks in true indifference.

" _You_ know, it can't be mistaken for anything else," she said, eraser turning up, metal object twisting in her hand. "Soon, I'll be twice your age. What are you supposed to tell the kids? Romany is coming tomorrow," She scribbled something down... she wasn't sure what, just some writing practice. A descriptive piece.

_She wandered through the garden, the glimmer of dew in brilliant jade, the wolf lichen silent and creeping._

"Polly, I don't want to talk about it," David sighs, tiredly. "I'm not sure what to do when Romany comes."

_Shooting-star nightshades lay down their leaves, nodding downwards expectantly in clusters, amethyst trails and topaz heads waiting for her to do something... yet she took a glance at them, and left them in turmoil, wailing, wading in soil, petrichor and their poisonous sweet scent.._

"Maybe I can tell her about Rick, you can go somewhere with him," she suggests.

_I'm not an object_ , Rick momentarily thinks... but he can really get David out of trouble. "I'm willing," he says.

_The hellebore was lonely, deep red like a ruby, yearning for her company, waiting... Come eat us, come die with us..._

"Okay," said David, with an undertone of guilt, eyes down at the table.

_There, in the middle of the garden, were an elegant, wild cluster of moonflowers, white as a fleeting dove, raindrops perfectly situated on the pale trumpets._

She stops writing, and goes into the other room to call Romany, but she thinks of the next lines:

_The thorn-apples are waiting for her, a seed so wretched. But she is lured in by the glowing flowers, and her fingers bleed on contact with the spikes of the fruit. She gives in to its beautiful temptations, and eats its seeds, never to be found alive again._

After silence, this appears on rogerwaters.com and affiliated websites:

_A note from Roger: I'm taking a break from everything for a while. Please do not attempt to contact me._

October 15th

**What are you in terror of?**

Rick had gotten up this morning, still not accustomed to David's house. He's worried of encroaching socialist values (such as those Roger sometimes briefly preached, way back in the old days), the sheer size and lavishness, _immodesty_ of this place. He found himself wandering, drifting, lost, like a ghost, haunting an old mansion.

**Life needn’t _step_ on baby fingers...**

He had never lived a ghostly afterlife, but thought about it. Was he doomed to be a phantom, however corporeal, alienated from existence and unable to properly communicate? Was he left behind, again, like he just had had in time, only this time they were heading backwards? _Do I have to perpetually chase you three around?_

Rick felt like he was intentionally trying to get lost in here, disappear inside these walls, of this place, a complex of excessiveness... God, had Roger infected him? He... he didn't mind, of course! Of course. Their ex-bassist was lying to himself, anyway, he had become a resolute capitalist after Dark Side, only preaching socialism, but Rick could sense buried rubies of resentment against himself, swathed in vast expanses of desert sand. He didn't really care about Roger, the person he knew the least, anyway. The man who had fired him in the middle of his divorce, a faceless businessman, a vicious dog, his own sheep, a long figure in the spotlight at the center of the stage, while Rick hid behind his Hammonds and Farfisas and Wurlitzers, cast in shadows. Out of the equation.

He didn't want to dwell on his memories, as he preferred not to be resentful, unlike two certain men who had been fighting for, what, forty years now? Rick thought it might've improved with his own death, but was disappointed to find out, _no._

He finally found the bathroom, one of... how many? _Shut up, Roger._

The flicking on of the light switch, and he faces himself in the mirror. On the twelfth day of being alive, his heart sinks...

**The minutes _fall_ , and the demons**

Well, he's finally caught up with them, barely sidling along a crowd to fall through.

He sees this flash of half-recognizable face, and quickly diverts his vision. No. Someone had carelessly done it, snipping a good five years off of his ribbons. No...? Or a yes? ... _What is the point of saying 'Oh no' if you're now are getting a whole new shot at life? What could... should I do now?..Um..._

**Find their ways, unencumbered,**

This attempt at reassurance, striding confidently and along its way, trips and falls on its face. The horrified feeling returns, and Rick feels it consuming him like a tidal wave.

**Half dead,**

He was _almost_ out of this chance, and he was about to close this door... a foot in the door appeared, and a creature was there, grabbed him and dragged him out, kicking and screaming.

**Poisoned by their own fatal art.**

The disdainful Richard Wright looks back at him in the mirror, yet it's him, and not a separate entity. There's a kind of confused and repulsed sentimentality for it and he mawkishly, anxiously, reaches towards the mirror-

**Each dirty tune produces... its own _nobility_ of _form_...**

-staring at the reflection's hand reaching towards his, something lost in that past he's looking for...

_What am I doing?_ He scoffs to himself and shakes his head, trying to clear it of the bizarre feel that he had evoked.

**Each pays a different piper, a _DAFT_ pauper~**

He hears Rick coming down, and traces him as he came into more definition, and sits down with David. David knows exactly what's going on, because it's now another rainy and cold October morning, in 2002 for him, too. Rick has been caught in this web, and David knew it was going to come to him sooner or later. Now, he was writhing like a butterfly, dazzling and rippling wings red as a smoke-blotted sun, sure to catch _some_ insectivorous bird's eye.

"Good morning," he sighs, as Rick stares down at the table, seeming to scrutinise every little detail, repelled by every intricacy of it, frowning tightly.

"...Now what?" says the man in a rather hopeless tone, looking up at David. His eyes signal: _directionless._

David shrugs, table empty of cordiality. "I hope someone else knows."

"Maybe we should... haphazardly change our names, and hope someone recognizes us," Rick says. "But we should wait until whatever this is... is finished with us. Can't let anyone see an intermediate." His words were absent of casuality. This was cold, calculating.

"What about your children?" David inquired, and remembers he forgot to ask Rick about his kids. But why didn't Rick even ask?

"...Obsolete," replies Rick, briefly and disinterestedly, and David began wondering. Who would think of their children as _obsolete_?

**O _machine,_ how did we fail thee?~**

"Why?" David inquires, leans forward.

"Because they are," says Rick. "Death is that. Renders you obsolete. It made me realize, that in the end, love does not matter, it's a waste of precious time. Raising children is a waste of time, sex and marriage are a waste of time. What is happiness? Not any kind of love. It's all a primitive lie, an animal instinct that is not related to human endeavors and life's experience. So, I do not care about love anymore, and would like to live life to an articulate extent." He gazes at the wood grain in the table. He despises this life.

**I guess I feel like a _machine,_**

Rick's brain is likely partially ruined, being the disturbing notion that he is absolutely disaffectionate. What has Death done to him?

Rick's thinking, _How do I amend this..._

**That cannot be _cranked_ anymore.**

"Friendships are not related to love," Rick continues on his strange tangent, "But they can get cut and fester into love. Friendships are a strength, love is a weakness, malignant on one's work. I think, I'm not sure where I heard this, but... ** _'_** _One is a machine, the other man. No.. Machine is not an apt way to describe it. He lives for his work, he is what he presents. The other is more like a machine, doing obligatory human deeds, marriage and children, and killed the 'machine', as so was it called. But it never died. People think they are the same. They are not. Were you stabbed in the back, knife on Knife, and closed in the dark, forced to say you want this? You can't answer, because you died. Of course, one always is resurrected, like Lazarus. It was not Jesus, but the man pining for his machine. Turning it back on, it took him over and changed him, and he was no longer a man, but a blade of work.'_ ...Who knows?"

**My gabbers are broken..... and... bent,**

David was deeply disturbed. Was this even Richard Wright, or a fragment of him, or mostly him with a piece chipped away? The man changed by his machine? Did it even matter to David, because he mostly had business affairs with Rick, and not personal ones?

"I'm sorry," Rick shakes his head. "I'm frustrated right now."

"...It's fine," says David.

**Like a _wall,_ strangled by ivy-**

Roger shows up at Nick's house, knocking insistently, simultaneously listening on a call. It's clear he's phasing into intermediacy, related to both the Roger Waters of the 'present' (or rather, that on the first day of October) and the Roger Waters of their temporal destination, nineteen sixty-six.

Instead, Annette answers. "Oh!..." she says. She _knows_ how Roger looks like, and that this isn't how Roger (...usually?) looks like, and this is clearly something in between him and her husband, especially because they are now time-related, Annette suspects. She chooses not to address it.

"...Hello, Roger. Uh...., Nick will be with you in a moment."

There's some vague shuffling heard around, and the door opens again. It's Nick, a looking bit interrupted, in the middle of cooking something, judging by the threatening serrated knife in his hand. "Er, hello, Roger."

"Maybe I should've orchestrated this a bit more carefully..." Roger murmurs, half-occupied. "Yeah, yeah, we're in a state of emergency. _Right now!_ " He's spitting hysterically into the phone. He turns to Nick, crazed exasperation on his face.

"We are losing _so_ much fucking time," he says, hyperbolically gesturing. "What did they decide to do today? Kick off five instead of one?! God, Nick, you gotta help me."

"I did notice," said Nick, knife upturned, plastered and stained with the seeds and juice of a tomato. "I'll help you, don't worry." Despite Nick's insistence that he stay in his hospitality yesterday, Roger had vaporized into thin air, off to a motel or hotel or hostel or inn for some unreasonable reason. _I told you... you could've done this earlier._

Why is Nick so calm, so unaffected by this? He's living a perfectly normal life (as normal as one who happens to the drummer of a world-renowned band, a race-car driver, a licenced pilot and, from what Roger can smell, an excellent cook) without any issue. He isn't panicking, or having a _perpetual mental breakdown_ (like Roger).

"Um..." He's trying to listen to Erzin blabber on, and also think of something to say.

"Who knows?" shrugged Nick. "Do you want to come in... or...?"

"I'm on the phone with Erzin, maybe, just wait and I'll think," said Roger.

" _Bob_? Out of all people, why him?" Nick's mind was nagged by the possibility of burnt chicken, which he had taken the care to marinate for five hours.

"Just in case..." trailed off Roger. "Yes, yes, it's true, I swear! Do you want proof?" He's diverted by a voice over the phone, presumably Erzin's.

"Um.... do you want to talk to Bob?"

"Sure, briefly."

"I'm literally at Nick's doorstep, you wanna ask _him_?" Roger hissed into the phone.

He handed the phone to Nick. Nick awkwardly hung there, in the doorway and rain splattering outside. That chicken was going to burn if he didn't get back soon enough.

"Um, hi, Bob," said Nick. A residual static hangs over.

"Nick? Oh, hi, Nick. How are you today?" stabs the fuzzy universal North American accent of Bob Erzin.

"Oh, I'm just cooking," casually says Nick.

"Is this a joke then?" asks Bob The Producer.

"No. This is a serious matter of discussion. It is kind of disastrous. Not my cooking, this whole situation... um, we are, indeed in an emergency state. Making the most out of my life before I technically die. But anyway, how are you, Bob?"

"Surprised to receive this information... I heard that Richard has come back from the dead."

"Now, _that_ is a fact. However, I'm at my place in Hampstead, and he's at David's house somewhere in Winsborough Green, so you might want to call Dave up," Nick replied. Bob, Bob, Roberty Bobbity Erzin, out of everyone Roger could've called, the police, the gov, the United States of America, and Bob Erzin, in his eyes, was clearly the choice for this. Nick is going to ask Roger later... _why?_

"Alright. But before I do, swear this is not some kind of practical joke, because I'll never put it past you two again, especially after not hearing from you people in... how long?"

"Not sure," Nick uselessly answers. "Anyway, I think that's it. Here, Roger," he passes the phone back to Roger, and dashes inside the house to see if his chicken is burning. He checks the undersides of each piece with a fork... a bit scorched. An unamused look on his face, he exposes the uncooked side to the searing heat of the cast-iron, and then rushes back to Roger, who just hung up on Erzin.

"Would you like to come inside, or go back to... whatever place you came from?" asks Nick, upturns his spatula in hand.

Roger shrugs. "If you have time and a vacant space."

Nick gestures him to come inside.

The phone is ringing. David's not familiar with the number. Marked with a +1, a numeral prefix, its origin seems to be from America. In the middle of traffic, David picked up he phone. The road stretches out, filled with cars, the passenger seat stretches out, filled by a ghost. David picks up to fill out the void in his heart.

"Hello? Who is it?" he inquires the caller.

"David, it's Bob. Bob Erzin," replies... Bob Erzin.

"Bob? What's the meaning of this call?" David asks.

"Is it true?" Bob asks. _He knows? How?!_

"What do you mean?"

"That Rick is alive?"

"Where did you hear that?"

"Roger." _Roger._ Roger _had_ to tell someone, just _had_ to. He couldn't resist, couldn't he? A mildly annoyed expression appears on David's face.

"Yes. You can talk to him right now, actually," says David. Was it even _sensible_ to tell Erzin?

Rick is pushed into the middle of all of this. Bob? Bob Erzin, one of their main co-producers? Why him?

"...Er... Hi, Bob..." says Rick, nervously.

Bob can't believe this. No... no way. This _couldn't_ be Richard William Wright. The man is dead. The voice might argue otherwise, well-textured and instantly aurally recognizable.

" _Rick?"_ Bob's disbelief permeates everything, his voice, the phone, Richard himself. " _RICK?"_

"...Yes?" says the voice over them phone.

"How?!" Was he alive this whole time, or...

"I'm not sure," Bob doesn't like the sound of that voice... it makes him nervous, it makes him think _what is beyond._ His horizons are opened, and he doesn't want to look, in fear that there's something out there he shouldn't see.

"Um, and the other situation mentioned? Is that true?"

"Yes," says... Richard Wright (?), over the phone. "It's very disorienting. It's two-thousand-and-two over here, I think."

"No way," breathlessly gasps Bob. "You're serious?"

"I can swear on my life that I have one. If you want photographic evidence, I'll comply," replies Wright, who is unusually calm. But he had always been that way, repressing his feelings. Sometimes too much, like how he had become, under oppressive stress from a divorce and Roger's unrelenting insistence that he worked, inert on _The Wall_ , and how Bob had experienced it first-hand. Bob knew him as quiet, sensitive... and knows him as dead.

A silence follows, as the two try to think what to say.

"I'm already convinced," said Bob.

"You _cannot_ tell _anybody_ , Bob," suddenly insists Richard Wright over the phone. "None of us want media attention in this situation... it would be disastrous."

"I won't I swear," counter-insists Bob. "You guys can just... call me anytime."

"Alright, says Wright.

He hands the phone back to David. The traffic crawls, his life crawls.

The phone is ringing. Again.

"What?" Roger hisses into the phone, who was briefly enjoying some chicken (it tasted extremely bizarre at first, considering he had only eaten apples for the past week-plus, and forgot what every other kind of food tasted like, and therefore was thoroughly expecting the chicken to taste like apples) that Nick had made, rather sublime (due to the fact that apples taste mediocre and not at all savory).

"It's gotten worse, hasn't it?" is the voice of Rick, using Gilmour's number. Roger is haphazardly denying that Wright's alive, and then destroys that doubt, by remembering his presence yesterday at the strange meeting the four had.

"You mean, like... _yes,_ it's gotten _absolutely_ worse. I think it's more like, 2000 than 2007."

"It's gotten to me," says Rick, flatly. "It's not great. And I think, in particulate, we've shelled ourselves out a half-decade of time currency."

_Bizarre vocabulary selection._

"Will it continue like that? Do you know?" interrogates Roger.

"No, unfortunately," sighs Richard. "This was already unpredictable, but it's easily gone downhill. By the way, _Bob?_ Bob Erzin, out of all people you could've called?" It wasn't aggressively intonated, a pure question.

"Setting ourselves up for music again, if everything goes absolutely wrong, we can get back on our feet with our old producer accessible. It's not like we have an excuse, if we all just disappear it will cause definite suspicion. So, I'm orchestrating a plan to die, or something. You're already covered. Fake identities are easily purchasable online, at least in shady areas of the dark net, as well as passports-"

"-What? Roger, calm down." It feels strange, talking to a stranger. "It's not that difficult, only a bit of people won't put it past us... but the majority of the population possesses... logic."

"Seeing is believing," Roger smoothly retorts.

"Does it matter if people know, anyway?" Rick counters.

David's watching as this goes down, Rick sharply expressive, no context from the other side.

"...I'm not sure," says Roger. "It's honestly a better idea to start from our profession than from scratch. If we remain anonymous, that could work." Roger has some very convoluted ideas on what they should do... but, yes, Rick has to agree, like some kind of sheep. He can't help but admit, it is a fair idea, but the whole thing is convoluted. Do they want to be recognised or not? Do they want to get back together? Do they want to start over, or stay musicians?

"I think we should discuss this," says Roger.

October 16th

It's a fast sigh of relief, 2001, not 1997. What caused that abrupt jump, Rick isn't sure of, but it means more time to collect and compose himself. He was dying out there, viewing the slow burn, a spark jumped from somewhere, and then rapidly catching ablaze with some kind of accelerant. It burnt a lot, but he himself had joined the other three, consumed in these slow flames of a disappointing post-millennium year. David and he had gone out to Hove, staying in David's other residence, and found a big surprise:

The place is entirely empty. Deprived of everything, bare walls, floors, ceilings, square metreage. David is dumbstruck. Who plundered the place? He's aware no one's visited here in a few weeks, but something must've gone on. It seems abandoned, long abandoned. There's cobwebs in the corners of the house, something David had never seen. There were no markings or indentations in the wall indicative of many pictures and paintings hung up over the years, no guitars or cables or bowls or typewriters or old flowers... Nothing. The place is as immaculately bare as it was when they first got it over ten years ago, empty, lonely...

A nagging thought was pestering Rick... _What is it with you consumers?_ and other strange anti-capitalist commutations. Money, as a subject, was brittle, ashen... he doesn't like it.

Has death made him loveless _and_ a socialist, or what?

He keeps on having conflictions, an inherent feeling of condescension and wonder.... and confusion. Rick _does_ feel like a machine... he cannot enjoy the cardinal, sensual pleasures regarded as luxuries. He becomes increasingly anxious, trapped, something wanting to be let out...

The solution is the sea. His eternal solution. Not being women, or money, or cars, but he can remember the last time he lived, in the palace of memories that makes up the framework that is his identity, his life, where the _Evrika_ sliced through the Mediterranean waters like the languid gulls' wings through the air, wheeling, sailing. The pure joy that came from those rare times being _alone_ , not picking up random people and being grossly serviceable, not sex-drugs-and-rock n' roll that he hosted on a boat. Wishes for the quiet solitude and intimacy of the turquoise-and-azure sea stretching out into the horizon, the barking of the birds above, following the vast, moon-white sails that towered over the gentle Aegean Sea, whose canvas nearly glowed, seeming to reflect the sun, and the universal ocean olfactory nostalgia: salt-scented, curling and twisting wind that reassuringly brushed his graying hair. But time flew away like fleeting dreams of youth, the brief moments, or hours, of bliss would be ended on his own accords, groupies, prostitutes, junkies, alcoholics, and other people swarming to the table, vicious and almost foaming at the mouth with sharp canines, ready to drown themselves in his spirits and liquor, pigs snorting while feasting on their slop of vices and rolling around in the mud and dust of dirty pleasures. But it was no matter to them, just a naive, dusty memory on a shelf full of bigger and more important books, or maybe no more... he wouldn't be surprised if someone had stumbled off the boat, head swirling with cocaine like a snowglobe, staggered into an alleyway, and collapsed on the cement, dead. What life could they have lived? What if they had corrected themselves, gotten an education, and cured cancer? What if they did beautiful art, about to have a big break, and then the world was robbed of its new star?

The sea was an integral part of Rick's life, and after the brief intermission (of twelve years' length), it shoves itself back into his life, eagerly waiting like an old friend, a few dozen metres away. It's a sullen bluish-slate, reflecting the sky above it, changed from a sparkling Grecian aquamarine to dour English flint. The sea is choppy, writhing like a snake, foaming and dying. The sea breeze, rather gale, doesn't permeate David's home, but Rick wishes he could open the window and let in a driving draft of torrential rain and harsh squalls. As a guest, he's courteous to not act upon it. Maybe when the sky is a seemly blue. But that wouldn't be any of the days he's been here, in the events of Richard Wright, Pt. 2, he believes he's only seen the sun peek through once or twice in a wall of cumulus. Yet, here are seagulls, still out there, still flying like the weather doesn't bother them, even though it seems like the delicate creatures would get ripped apart in these high winds. In the bleak scene, screaming bursts of loose garnet foliage, tumbling and toiling through the unstoppable force, are shoved through at Mach 1, battered and bogged by unrelenting tears of the sky, yet still in one piece. _Still_ red as wine, blood, cinnabar, the sun in the flag of Japan, a palette of churning wildfire in the grey. It seems like so many have just come at once, as if a whole tree has let go of all its leaves, that it had been desperately hoarding, and gave up. Soon, these leaves are gone, leaving dull stragglers stuck to the wet sidewalks and roads, some fluttering, but others trampled and squashed by feet and tires.

Is it worth it? Is it worth living?

If he can live this again, _yes._ Even in this strange new life...

He closes his eyes, dark. Static-y, faded greens and yellows swirl around, reds and purples... abstract grids and rosettes, but he has a vague feeling he's traveling down a hole, deeper in his mind, deeper into any soul, every soul, through the veil of space and time, is he taking acid, pride-of-maderiras wait what are those, the slim-billed gull I have no idea what that is either, Eldey Island where even what when who why, Rog you ate all the cornflakes-

......

-and found himself walking down a cold Cambridge road. The year was, or is, more or less, nineteen-sixty-eight, and I'm sure of it. I'm wearing my old black raincoat, walking down an old sidewalk, holding an old black umbrella, huddling against a volley of dim, old, and black iron streetlamps as a volley of freezing rain streaks towards my person like arrows. It's getting rather frosty rather quickly this October, chill winds and shuddering autumn trees, the crunch of ice-glaced weeds underneath my old black boots. I'm confused, not very warm, and the pavement is slippery, rain turning into ice on contact with the ground. When will this leave? I mean, it just started. I think I'm alone here, in the empty grey skies and the vacant streets, haunting, or haunted. By me? Why me? Is this death itself? Am I becoming an ice statue, is this just a place to roam-

-"Rick?!" is the sudden voice that comes out of nowhere, and Rick exclaims and slides off the windowsill, knocked down by his own startlement to the floor.

He shakes his head in disorientation, dizzy and half-lidded... was that a dream? "Um, er..., sorry about that..." Rick's face twists into various attempted expressions, but just eventually settles on a look with mouth half-open, one eyebrow arched and eyes looking from side to side.

"Did you... fall asleep or something?" inquires David, whose concerned expression is just barely tinged with a bemused glint in his eyes. He had begun to panic, thinking that Rick had spontaneously died... and face falls flat.

"I do believe so," says Rick. "I had the strangest dream..."

They _had_ discussions, tangled and confused, as what to do next. But they couldn't come up with anything.

October 17th

The millennium year, the most figuratively, metaphysically exciting year in the numbers in any twentieth-century person's mind. However, the only people that are living in the exact date of the second millennium are four people, four people at tense odds. Soon, they will be the only people in the twentieth century, the only people living that and in the twenty-first at the same time. Soon, they will dwindle into nearly only half away from the nineteenth century, nineteen-sixty six.

_I NEED more time._ Roger feels it trickling away, or is it flooding back? Already, twenty years in the blink of an eye, only two weeks and one day to render him in this state? And another two weeks and one day, what else? Even less so? He's lost, returning to a crisis state. It feels uncoordinated, unstately, generally _wrong_ to be doing this, especially in front of your former coworker, but he can't help it.

_(Meanwhile on Reddit, the image has been circulated sufficiently, and begins to die down; just a trick of the light.)_

He's far from having this be over, any of them. Roger just can't take it anymore. He's as nerve-wracked as people who believed in Y2K, the millennium will pass him by, and he'll follow his ghostly footsteps, which were once footsteps of the living, of _him_ years upon years ago, the inevitable progression of time allowing him to create an unfathomable amount. He's dispassioned, disillusioned, dissatisfied and stratospherically out of his comfort zone, his complex and strongly fortified bubble burst. A bubble that one may liken to the Titanic, wielding numerous boasts about being unsinkable, only to have it _specifically_ sink after hitting an iceberg, resulting in disaster. And what a disaster this is. Roger sees his world falling apart before his very eyes, crumbling into pieces, pieces of the pottery lying scattering all over the floor, weak and poorly sedimented salt clusters being crushed in the human hand, little white grains falling out in between the fingers, a hand mashed by a hydraulic press, you name it. Breaking, broke, broken, brokered, bricked, bickered. Drilling in the point _over_ and _over_ and _over_.

_I'm positively loopy. Mad as a raving starling, a rabid horse, a camel just having bit the head off of its owner, two pheasants fighting to the death!_ Warbling songbirds and hoopoes, rollers and bee-eaters, blackbirds and bluebirds and yellowthroats! Green-jays and brown-jays and purple martins, swallows and swifts and terns and topaz... Roger isn't an ornithologist. He's done with this. So this is how it feels to be Syd, huh?

Roger closes his eyes for just a brief few second... he needs to calm down, recompose himself, stagger to the ER holding all his organs ripped out of his abdominal cavity, the like. But something's rapidly pulling him in, and he's falling, falling.

There's a beach.

I feel a strange sentiment towards beaches and the like... I'm not sure why, but I'm beginning to imagine this place: think huge rock landscapes alternated with picturesque dunes. It's got these bizarre windswept trees, and a road snakes along this beach. There's a sign here, but I can't make out what it says. Some nicely designed houses lying along, presumably not very cheap considering the soulfully pleasing oceanfront. Low-lying, I can see a haze in the distance, on the horizon, and a little further in, massive, twenty, thirty, forty foot waves churn like tsunamis, a prominent sea-ish scent on the angrily crisp air. Deep blue, sapphire water crept on by fog, it seems to be coming closer. The sun casts rays from behind. It's an early... maybe not, considering it's October, morning, nineteen-sixty... eight, unarguably,

even though the cars are sleek and glossy, and people wield their phones, and modernity could never be more obvious. For me, I think... it feels so isolated, even with all these people. I gawk above them like some owl looking down from a tree, contorted in some awkward gait. Seagulls bark overhead, squealing an squeaky screech, with no kind of edge to it, just rubber. Steel and glass. I'm alone. I'm alone, and _cold_ , and GOD, I'll never be home, and dry...

The vast feelings of detached endlessness vanish like sprites, into thin air, as Roger finds he's lying on the floor in some random room in Nick's house. Is this the attic, an empty bedroom...? No idea.


	7. Slate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please lock and load your Google Translate, or you will be pumped full of lead by the French and Vietnamese. 
> 
> Both sides of the coin begin to experience MORE new problems, on top of the full-course meal of issues they already have, so things begin to get excessively messy. The drummer and bassist get annihilated by a single specimen of Mytilus californianus. Rick gets lucky (he just doesn't know it). David doesn't get lucky at all; and is frustrated by the fact that nobody understands him- For all the wrong reasons.

A vague profanity is loudly heard from the upstairs, the perpetually anguished snarl of George Roger Waters. Nick already knows what's coming, already in the situation himself. Dwelling on his own situation, it's disconcerting, but he's silent. Roger, however, has... _different_ ways of coping. Two minutes later, Nick's ex-bandmate slithers down the stairs, hissing, "Eleven years in _three_ days? I can't believe it..." From the usual venom in his voice, this is somewhat diluted. It may be fading angst, or he's too tired to lament with such edge. 1995's Roger looks as if middle age has just given up on him and did a half-baked rendition... "Oh, just some grey hair here and there, can you make the lines, like, ten per cent for prominent? Not sure, um... can we do this later? He looks too weird, I'm getting very uncomfortable-"

Bonus, horse-like features of his youth beginning to reemerge. Nick is picking at his breakfast, and in the middle of this, nearly laughs as his own thought.

"What?" frowns Roger, chary.

An expression that attempts to be downturned appears on Nick's face, but the sanguinity is too overtoned.

"Good morning," Nick comforts the expression into submission. "You look well."

Roger looks sheepish (or slightly insulted). He looks to the side, twisting his mouth.

"Anyway," Nick continues he dissects his omelette, "What today, what now?"

"Well, there's clearly an unnamed issue here," says Roger, looking up towards the ceiling.

"Mm, yes, I can see that," Nick sighs. "Can't do anything but grouse, it'll still reach its end goal."

Roger frowns. "Well, I'd rather bitch about it than do nothing."

"Go ahead," shrugs Nick.

"First of all, this is absolutely terrible- Can't go anywhere, do anything, see anyone. Second of all, nobody, and I'm talking personal relationships, will know who I am, or they'll think I'm mad, or they're mad. Third, I'm forced to cooperate with unfavourable... circumstances."

"You mean David?" provokes Nick, amused by the obvious complaints that _everyone_ in the band has thought at least and monologue.

"...Yes," sighs Roger, a tinge of petulance infecting his voice. It's clear Roger is alienated, by himself and Nick, onset by a combination of that and the foreign setting. Something, to Nick, doesn't feel right. It's the house, something's off.

In Middlewick House, way off in Corsham, there is an empty commotion. The property, though vacant, has plenty going on inside. A lamp on a side table. It vanishes. In the blink of an eye, the dark-stained walnut side table disappears, spare bits and things falling to the floor that were stored within its singular drawer.

In the kitchen, there's a clatter of pots and pans, ceramics, and silverware. Stacks of dishes, in cabinets and the sink, hanging over the stove, are being displaced as they rapidly disappear, one by one. No later than ten minutes past, _everything_ in the house is gone- except an old, scratched fork and a single plate, which had the grace of being an old piece of Fiestaware, with the retired colour of Rose. It nearly broke, falling to the floor after the other plates disappeared, but it's intact. Chairs become nil one by one, in a coordinated spiral around the table they're situated at.Though everything is gone, there are new elements: a distinguished scent of droll mustiness, a thick layer of dust on the floor, and a city's worth of old cobwebs. The cobwebs, weaved by non-existent spiders that _didn't_ live in these webs, and died a non-existent time ago, enough to card and spin into yarn, spin those yarns into skeins, and crochet it all together to make a nice afghan rug. There are even some weeds growing in between old, dilapidated floorboards (recently polished and in-service-looking). But no one knows this.

They're on the shoreline. The beach is relatively disappointing, with small pebbles instead of sand, mainly just there for random posterity. It's incomparable to the autonomous merit of Greek ones, but never mind that. It's not very nice weather, but the gulls still fly on, incredibly fast in their gliding, white-and-grey jets. The two men on the beach are quietly reminiscing their memories of _The Division Bell_ , how after seven years, it was delightful to be back together. So many hours of improvisation, reading out Polly and Anthony's lyrics (brilliant) and refinement of techniques. The year was 1995, but 1994 wasn't too far away... The Floyd were back together, albeit without a dominant component. But they held out, filled that gap fairly competently, sealed it with mortar. They had moved on from their tumultuous past, separated by a sea of a decade from where there were vast fields of poppies and scattered bricks, wars and bombing planes and dead fathers. This lonely island was/is the headspace of Roger Waters, a bizarre internal world which he never let anybody in to, and nobody even dared venture.

_"Give a man a compulsion and let him run with it!" -Henry James_

David wasn't, isn't sure what to do with this predicament of the entire home being empty. They rented a motel room instead. Can't just sleep on the floor of an empty house.

While they're walking along the shore, they begin to notice a distinctive... _crunch_ in the sand. Looking down, Rick observes that the rain has begun to glaze, supercooled, turning into ice on contact. They freeze in his hair, on the cars, on the sidewalks, on umbrellas and lampposts, and yes, the sand. 

"Bit strange isn't it?" wonders David. "Coldest and rainiest October in a while, and now this." he prods at the sleet-like sand with one foot.

"Yes," murmurs Rick, who's caught up with the airshow, and briefly looks down to observe the snow-sand, idly. _Aren't the gulls bothered by this? Won't it get on their feathers?_ The gulls were looking a little agitated and began to descend, somewhat, still defiant of the weather. They're common herring-gulls, indignant and bold, unafraid of people. But the two people on the beach were no matter to them, they were being slowly ice-glazed by oppressive rains taking over their airspace. As the time idles, but still slowly progresses, they begin to give in. The gulls are clearly bothered, searching for a place to roost. They get their luck up, and settle down where an information station is situated. 

"David, look," nudges Rick, as a few gulls glide into and under Medina Terrace's balcony. David smiles appreciatively. 

They've accepted that this is inevitable, however horrific the process, they couldn't stop it no matter how hard they tried. Rick mainly tries to ignore that he's thinking ever so slightly different (in a fundamental way), more restlessness beginning to fray his nerves. He _needs_ to be on those keyboards, he needs to be writing songs, collaborating, even singing, _anything_ , yet here he was, on a grey beach watching seagulls. He was in-between _The Division Bell_ and _Broken China_ at this time, where everything worked in a kind of perfect conjunction, no matter _Broken China_ 's basis on his ex-wife, it was an important piece of work. Maybe... maybe Death made him bitter about love because his wife had left him a year before he died, but he knows of his wrongdoings before that. Blatant indulgence and cheating... especially the time between Franka and Millie. He sees clearly, and won't bring himself to do the most basic of actions correlated to these things, he _can't_. Almost like A Clockwork Orange, in a sense. So, this could be his punishment, or one of the expensive retributions of bringing someone, someone who didn't do much good at many points in his life, back from the dead. Along with the other thing...s? 

_I think I'm engrossed in these seagulls just to distract myself..._

Once under cover, the birds are ruffling and preening their feathers, trying to get the splotches of ice out of their precious flying appendages, tearing some feathers off in the process. . Just like how Rick is trying to get all these problems out of his life.

_Do I cause these problems for everyone else?_

October 19th

As one gets older and looks back, they often condescend the brash nature of their past incarnate. _Look at all those idiotic things I did_ , you'd say. But as Roger goes back further, he finds himself scoffing at the angry old man, now a (slightly less) angry middle-aged man. The year is 1994. He only continued to get colder and harsher with every passing year in linear time, but now? Something is psychologically shifting. _I'm going soft!_ Roger doesn't like it, but can't help it, like a self-aware child unable to control their compulsiveness, unable to interact in composure, as an _adult_. His edge is bleeding out, and he watches in concern and disturbance as it slowly seeps down the gutter and into the storm drain, or the sewers. Watching a sword being whittled down into a paring knife is not very fun, especially if you _are_ the sword. It still has the capacity for damage, yet one expects it to cut cherry tomatoes and not slice limbs... He's frowning as it gurgles down the drain, screaming, the screech of blade against grinder, sparks flying. As of now, it's okay for him, but as time goes, he'll only watch it taper into internal thought and memories of his upbringing. He doesn't want this, though it's already getting to Roger...

_Is this the new pattern?_ Six year, two-day cycles, day A being -5, and day B being -1. At least it gives a little extra time, not that he has much left. All Roger is doing as of now is waiting for the storm to pass. The longer he waits, the worse it gets, hearing the roaring of a vortex above, cellar rattling like an earthquake. It's violent and thrashing, like a massive tuna, knowing it's dying on the deck of a fishing boat. Roger's terror is lit only by a gas lantern, casting long shadows in what could've been pitch blackness. Everything is seen through wide eyes and dead, sharp fear, wilting and soul-crushing. But the thing he most dreads is the aftermath of the storm, where he has to come back up from the storm-cellar and accept the fact that his house has been totally demolished. He can hear it being torn to pieces, walls shredding, roof flying off and being flung five miles away, bricks dead and scattered as the beams collapse. The quiet will settle, the only sound remaining a sickly-fast beating heart. Roger will stagger out into the light, and find wood beams and old possessions scattered everywhere, everything in ruins, broken or ripped open or smashed or waterlogged, penetrated, grazed, razed into the ground. This is his future, snaking closer, and closer, and closer yet, only a few days away...

Nick, on the other hand, is lost in thought about the Division Bell experience. Though the two are, in the present, friends, they are prompted to become a bit more alienated from each other by the temporally proportional circumstances. Nick can catch brief glimpses of rouge thoughts floating around- _Why am I stuck with Roger?_ He found himself missing Rick and David, and for unrelated reasons, Annette. For some reason, she hadn't picked up his calls, nor did she come home last night. Nick was _definitely_ worried about that. He was compulsively calling her, getting anxious. Nick tries to reassure himself, but it's a weak and futile false promise. Everything is becoming a lie, dissolving into dust, as the curtains are lifted on the stage. He's more distant from Roger, who is in a state where he's sitting on the floor and staring into out into space, reminding Nick of One of My Turns. At least he wasn't in the mood for provocation, Roger is a world away. a mirage, footprints in the sand that lead far past dunes in the other direction.

Pink Floyd no longer moves with the flow of time, and time is, frankly, angry. This causes so many incidental instabilities and fluctuations, even if it's just another speck of time tacked onto four nobodies (in terms of the universe). Time consulted with Space, and the two made a coincidental pact. However, in reality, Time and Space are concepts, non-entities, so personification of them is integral to understanding what they are 'planning' (rather spontaneous events in their elemental clashing, like chemical reactions), and what events of spatial instability will unfold. This will correspond with the temporal ones, yet space is more inert and more inclined to stay still as people move through it. Time moves through people, through space and its individual elements, so the process is time moving through space, moving through vaster spaces. So, soon, space will riot.

David and Rick are quietly milling around Kernel of Hove, a small store selling their wares of... spelt tortellini, K-vitamins, tempeh, marinara sauce in cans, and cottage cheese, among more reasonable and everyday products. However, they aren't necessarily here to purchase anything. All they need to do is pass the time, and they do that by walking rounds around the aisles of a health foods store. The main pastime in there is internally ridiculing the ludicrous products: VITALITYmuesli, NINE MEALS FROM ANARCHY: UNCORRUPTED VEG STOCK... hemp milk...... powdered algae? And what exactly is the difference between houmous and houmous dip? But, evitably, capitalism ensues, and out comes David, Rick trailing behind, meekly nibbling on pistachios. 

Rick realises he's practitioning immaculate communism: classless, not two cents to rub together, and not under any kind of rule. Are the dead communist? Are the returned as well? Rick's not sure, because he doesn't remember anything from being dead, and as far as he's concerned, he's the only person to totally die and come back (as in not immediate resuscitation, as in total corpse). His ideology is not that of communism, and at least he's using a straightforward capitalist as a crutch. Rick is nothing, at least for now, an appendix, a tailbone, an annotation, a footnote in life, because to the rest of the world, he is dead. 

"The forecast is straight rain for the limit of the foreseeable future," says David. "Meteorologists are stumped as to where all this rain came from... This all started, apparently, on October 2nd." He turns and furrows his brow at Rick. "Coincidence, much?"

Rick shrugs. "Maybe, considering that both are near-impossible, would be impossible, considering the fact that they've happened." _Ever when did I like pistachios_? Despite the confusion, the facts are there: he finds himself thoughtfully savouring them. They're aimlessly walking up and down along the English Channel, sea clawing and thrashing violently, but they're a comfortable distance away from that whole mess. There are no gulls out today, either, because the rain has set itself firmly into a supercooled state, and a thick layer of ice coats everything. It was a scare when Rick nearly slipped on the road, glazed over the time he got cataracts. _Was I really that old, already getting cataracts?_ A decade, in historical terms, does not seem like a long time, but for anyone that lived a decade, someone who could store memories sufficiently, it is a long, long time. And Rick watching the efforts of his progressions through time get carelessly sheared off like sheep for wool, it's bizarre and alienating. He won't have any merit for being _this_ age nor any age proceeding, which will become irrelevant with each year passing. And considering that his mind is changing, and unable to resist these changes, would it really matter? But he's still conscious of it and can make free-willed alterations. However, it's the inclination that's working too effectively...

Rick's peering everything through a distorted scope, too aware of his more recent years (in the context of linear time), things he had ignored while at that time. In combination with that, he's too aware of these times. Worryingly, awareness from this time is beginning to dim as well, like it's linear time happening in the present. Almost if he's going through the rounds that are life, routine. But, as he's very aware of, it changes from day to day, barely giving him time to develop excuses for whatever horrible thing he did _that_ year, or _this_ year, or _any_ year, really. And justification is rendered obsolete as the new days come, and he looks upon his 'future' years in condescension, a third-person situation, detached from having his first-person crisis. _What was I doing?_

The day is mediocre, uneventful for the most part, ignoring the new context. The dreams are, ignoring their usual bizarreness:

Right now, Richard is situated in the middle of nowhere, somewhere in an unleveled area of hills and some kind of dry evergreen, needles covering the ground in a thick mat, pine cones scattered this way and that. 

"Your rent expires in eighteen days," says someone behind him. Rick turns around. As of obvious, for obvious reasons, it's a man who's dressed in red, hawky eyes looping this way and that.

"Does it?" inquires Rick, furrowing his brow, noticing his words ricochet off the trees, this way and that.

The man's dark white hair glimmers with amusement. "Of course. You know what that means." His hair might as well be purplish-yellow, or bluish-orange, or greenish-red, difficult to tell when birds are singing this way and that.

"What _does_ it mean?" pushes Rick. He _needs_ to extrapolate to compensate for the highly-strung feel, this man's quinacridone tinge and a vague smell of _In A Silent Way_ is making him unnerved.

"Well, that was seventeen days ago," says the man, who is slithering like a snake in rounds on the linoleum. "You know what that means?"

"I excel in math," replies Rick, hand upturned and ready to make his confident statement. "Two-hundred and fifty-one pi."

"You're two off," notes a piece of litter on the ground.

"You have no validity in your statements, you're a piece of trash," Rick aggressively retorts.

"My dear, darling Kestrel," replies Aeugls the- "That's tomorrow." He interrupted my statement, my own narration of the dream! "Too bad," he replies.

"My name is Richard,' I protest, because it is Richard, and I don't deserve false recognition."

Warsaw, Poland, gives me the honour of it. "Well, that it," the east European country's capital sighs as it gives me the humble _it._

... And that's it?

_October 19th_

Rick's awake, a fresh... 1989 dawning on him, like the sunrise outside...

Except there was none, he remembered, and slid out of bed, took the metre-and-a-half walk to the window looking out of the Best Western, and peered past the curtains. Just checking, he was kind of hoping that there was some break. However, the darkish greyness of Hove, England, has been transformed into an ice rink- the sidewalks like fish in coolers at the market, the lampposts turned deadly, harbouring icicles that were impossibly large and looked ready to fall and impale. The beach looks similar to Antarctica, the only thing lacking is penguins. All the gulls along the local shoreline, with nowhere to go, had set up shop in various sheltered places. David and Rick have taken to ritualistically feeding the poor creatures tinned anchovies and the like. Rick's taking favour to a rather small one, who seems to be not typical in terms of gulls England has to offer. It's got a handsome, slender bill and slim legs, both black in colouration, and gold-leaf eyes, rimmed with red. It just... reminds Rick of something he can't quite put his finger on...

He preens himself in the mirror, disapproving of the person staring back. After his reflection's awkward interactions with him, he doesn't bother to try and communicate. All he does is stare contemptuously, dolefully, while the mirror mirrors him. Does the mirror mean it? Does Rick mean it? It's only a maybe.

David's been gone for a bit, so Rick can only sit and wait, looking down at the area of glaced green grass that looks like it's been transplanted, an unconvincing toupee of a near-neon shade. With the ice in play, it blends in just a bit, like slathering semi-opaque Brylcreem........ and Mandrax tranquillizers (...Syd?).......

Never mind.

Fish for breakfast, Rick doesn't feel like anything else much. With a hideous excess (ten whole tins set aside for the gulls) of it lying around the hotel room, Rick figures there's at least one to spare. As he eats, he's lost in thought... there's just a particular feeling about pecking at sardines with a recycled plastic fork at seven in the morning, that seems almost... romantic, in a sense. Comedically.

There is a strange sense of apprehension wafting through the air, no matter how eating sardines simulates love, and no matter the realization that romance is unappealing, and the tossing of half-eaten fish spines. And the other realization that he was suddenly done with the fish and, in ignorance of the fact, had unconsciously begun to pursue the delicate bones. He feels absolutely useless, doing nothing but idling. _Do I need to do anything? I mean, no one expects me to, or because I'm dead to everyone else?_ All Rick feels like he's done so far is wait. Wait for what? Nothing, because he is nobody, he's nothing. He's changing in front of his very own eyes, but he hasn't been dynamic at all, thrashing about in his own thoughts. What is he for?

Of course, this frustration has to amount to something, a perfect catalyst for spacial instability with the warped and frustrated thoughts of one Richard Wright. Slowly, space begins to fold within itself, without notice.

David has returned, now with A Momentary Lapse of Reason straggling behind him like some small dog, or metal cans tied with colourful ribbons to a car saying _JUST MARRIED._ That last album is two years past. He's finally got back his crown of hair, though this element makes him look like a bit like a crowned-pigeon... who cares, though?

"Good morning-" he stops. Rick seems to be in some kind of internal crisis and has eaten a tin of sardines in the process, making the whole room smell like brine and the like. He's keeled over the desk with head seized by his hands, making his white-streaked hair stick up amok. He's writhing slightly under his own grip, locked in this position.

David would have never left if he hadn't convinced himself that if he left Rick alone, the man would be fine, but apparently not.

_What if he's dying all over again_? Fear drives instinct, and David is urged to inquire:

"Rick, are you okay?"

Everything stops. It feels like Rick is having a paralytic seizure, the demons coming in, closer and harsher, their flaming cold breath on the back of his neck...

"Yes," he murmurs, once again, finding himself staring at the table.

"You sure?" confronts David.

"No," sighs Rick. "What _am_ I doing, even being alive? I'm aimless, directionless. I have nothing to keep me going except waiting for '66, and then, it'll be _worse_. It just keeps on getting worse, David, and I'm not quite ready for it. I never was, I thought- well, didn't think- that I'd never be alive again, and yet, here I am, misplaced. I don't belong here!"

"We're all misplaced," sighs David. "You have some people to keep you company; Nick and I.. and... Roger."

David doesn't want to lose Rick again. Just thinking about it is as horrific as dropping a diamond into a storm drain, not a crazy one, but one found in the rough, quiet, unassuming. Rick was incredibly valuable as a musician, and a person, too, and David can't help but be panic-stricken at the mere thought of... just seeing the life leave from his eyes, turning cold and pale. David thought it a trivial matter to be grateful, as to not see Rick the immediate moment he gave up ailing and faded from life. It took the edge off to only hear the (still) heart-and-soul-crushing news. But to see it with his very eyes, David can't even bear the thought.

"I just don't enjoy living," is the quiet continuation of Richard. "I don't have a life. My life is a framework of memories, lies of the past..."

"You were given your life back," insists David, "And you're stuck with it. You can't do anything about it, Richard, because you don't have the capacity or the tools at your disposal. It's inevitable you'll have to deal with it, all of this is inevitable, because it's reality."

Rick didn't really grasp the full situation, but he sinks deeper, the gravity of it settling down on him. He was at a distance, behind a glass windowpane, is what he assumed. This can't _possibly_ be real, it's just a dream. But by David's hard-hitting implications... Shouldn't he have realized this sooner? He's been a mind-drifter, but something clicks, finally, and everything comes down. Rick stops feeling like he's floating, and the strange warmth leaves from his body, inebriation and half-lucidity parting. The room comes into a real focus, and he's looking around, fascinated by what he sees. It's sharper, colder, meaner than a liminal sleep, and real life seems to come to him in the form of this... entity in front of him. Rick doesn't know who it is... but it's vaguely recognizable. It's sinking lower, this rendition, and everything is turning freezing, deathly, red-tinted. He feels like a corpse, and here he'll die...

Rick's gaze is unfocused, cloudy, for a moment, and then he collapses. David looks down in joint with such a fall, and it takes him a second to realise what has happened. _No. NO NO NO NO NO NO! Non! NOT HAPPENING, THIS IS NOT HAPPENING._ David's heart feels like it's beating in a hook, pulling him down, shaking the _peut-être mort_ Richard. Why is he doing this in... Français?

Richard, s'il vous plaît! Ne meurs pas maintenant! Êtes-vous en train de mourir? Répondez s'il vous plaît! His English... it's... début de Français! Il pense en Français! It's not even his... (what's the... mot... in English?).... langue maternelle! Ughh!

David essayez de penser à quelque chose en Anglais, but... um... ne trouve rien. Il soupire de frustration, incapable de faire quoi que ce soit. Mais il y a des choses plus importantes à portée de main, et David doit redresser ses priorités.

"Richard, réveille-toi!" dit-il et gémit parce qu'il ne parle même pas Anglais.

_David, vous avez des priorités!_ Après l'agitation, David vérifie le pouls de Richard et attend ...

et attend,

et attend,

et attend.

Où est-ce? David se sent malade, affreux. Est-ce qu'il vient de TUER Rick? Avec ses propres mots?! Est-ce une punition?

L'attente devient plus longue, plus dure, plus horrible alors que David commence à brûler à l'intérieur. C'est ça, n'est-ce pas? Il est mort, tout comme David, son âme flétrie et ratatinée hurlant.

"Richard…" murmure-t-il de son ton le plus efféminé et mortifié. David sent qu'il se rapproche trop du visage de son ami mort. C'est un moment douloureusement intime ...

Et puis, David pleure. Encore une fois, trois fois pour Rick. Une fois quand il est mort, une fois quand il est revenu, et un tragique dix-sept jours plus tard, mort à nouveau.

Rick is in some kind of area, just not very specific. There looms a skylark, or a person, really difficult to tell, who is sitting behind a desk. Behind him-or-her-or-it is a tunnel, two tunnels of some kind.

The lark greets him with an indecipherable language, some kind of East Asian one:

"Chào, Mr. Wright. Tôi là một con chim sơn ca. Dù sao, bạn muốn đi bên trái hay bên phải?"

Rick has no idea what the woman just said.

"Hay, bạn muốn quay lại?" continues the bird, oblivious to the language barrier.

"Um... can I go back to where I just was?" asks Rick, in futility.

"Xin lỗi, bạn có thể lặp lại điều đó bằng tiếng Việt không?"

"I don't speak... whatever language you're speaking."

"Ngừng nói tiếng Anh, mèo con!" tried the man.

Rick threw his hands up in exasperation. "I can't understand you, you can't understand me!"

"Ra khỏi đây, mèo con khốn nạn! Đi tái sinh thành một con mèo, hoặc một cái gì đó!" hissed the larkwoman, pointing his finger/wing feathers towards the right tunnel. Rick turns his head in a 1/4 profile in indignation, and storms out... into the left tunnel.

The manwomanbirdthing sighs, and mutters to themselves, "Tại sao anh ta không rẽ phải?..." Yet another opportunity wasted.

Rick heads towards the left tunnel. What was the difference between the left, the right, and the back? The right, red-and-orange toned, has some kind of pull to it, maternal in some convoluted way. The darkness, which rolls way back into whatever cave this is, emanates... peace, and warmth, and rest. But there are whispers of ' _forever....'_ coming from that void. Is that Death behind him? He shudders at the mere thought. And this tunnel, it's ice-blue, cold, sharp, vaguely familiar, and rather unattractive and sickly. In a bout of pettiness, he chose this route, but is it really the way he wants to go? That womanbirdman seemed to know, but he feels compelled to go here, for an internal reason, not some external force psychologically manipulating him.

_I have to_.

He steps through this threshold.

"Je suis désolé, Rick, je suis désolé..." Is the first thing he hears, a mourning intonation, and- possibly raindrops, and... he's lying on a ground.

It's so... so difficult to open his eyes, so difficult to move, but Rick tries. He can barely focus, self wanting to slip back into whatever terminal that was, but in conflict with the mind, up comes a fight. During this time, he realises that someone is _crying_ on him.

"Pourquoi as-tu dû mourir?" sniffed the Frenchman. "Que s'est-il même passé? Est-ce ma faute?"

More foreign languages to deal with? Rick, locked in, desperately seeks a way to break free.

"Réveille-toi, Richard. Réveillez-vous pour l'avenir, tous les gens qui comptent sur vous, réveillez-vous pour être réels. Tu n'es pas mort. Tu ne peux pas l'être! Être en vie..." Who even is this? He doesn't know any French individuals... some chance stranger.

"S'il vous plaît..." trails the voice, and he feels the rather romantic brush of a hand against his cheek. Is it romantic, or brotherly, or mournful? Rick can't tell, as he's too busy banging on the doors, screaming _LET ME OUT, LET ME OUT!_ There's nothing breaking, nothing is changing, he's stuck-

It's not a melodramatic fluttering open of the eyelids, but a _dramatic_ full twist and screeching halt as Rick writhes around on the floor like a dying worm, then stretches out like an uncoiling snake, jumping to his feet. Blood rushing from his head, he's disoriented as a wave of pink and greenish spark static moves through his vision. Dizzying for a few seconds, then it stops. He turns around slowly, and there is... _David_ , plastered against the wall, startled and clearly in the middle of an emotional moment.

_Oh mon Dieu, c'est aussi embarrassant, c'est incroyablement embarrassant!_ David se recroqueville et meurt à l'intérieur. Il essaie de dire quelque chose en anglais, mais cela se transforme en:

"Dieu, j'avais tellement peur, que s'est-il passé-" et il se rend compte qu'il parle en Français. Rick le regarde, confus, et essuie les larmes de David sur son propre visage. David essaie de parler en Anglais:

"Je n'avais pas l'intention de m'approcher si près, c'est juste que- AAARGHHH," Il gémit d'exaspération.

"David, why are you speaking French?" Rick asks. Of course, it had to be David, Rick forgot somehow he was fluent in French. He had forgotten a lot of things, like how to recognize someone he knew for the past _half-century_ or so. He watches as David peels himself from the wall, and walks over to the desk, where the hotel/inn had provided a complimentary notepad and plastic pen. The man scribbles on the notepad, takes one look at it, and immense infuriation crosses his face. He puts his head in his hand- and shows it to Rick.

'JE NE PEUX PAS PARLER ANGLAIS' is written in deeply pressured capitals, and Rick has no idea what that means.

"Non... Anglais.... Englias..." David phonetically fumbles around...

"Oh," Rick had already gotten it.

"Je peux cependant vous comprendre," David continues in French, possibly hoping Rick would pick something up. Rick does not. "Je veux juste que tu saches que ce n'était pas du tout romantique," David continues, "Si vous ne pouviez pas le dire."

"What about romance?" Rick takes a stab, he thought he heard _romantic_ in there.

David shrugs. "Non... nothing," he says, except his acquired French accent is as thick as the layers of ice outside.

...Well, this is an issue.

Space is really pissed now (as a metaphor for unstable; space is a concept), and is folding and warping, stretching and contracting, some spontaneous wormholes in the middle of space appear. Scientists have to take notice, as wormholes, or 'white holes', as they may be called, were purely theoretical, and now living proof was appearing everywhere. They lasted in flashes of a brief second or less, but were well-documented throughout the day.

The phone rings.... Seriously, how many times does the phone have to ring? It's David's number again.

Nick picks up. "Hello, David," he says. Silence over the phone, and then:

"Actually, it's Rick, and we have a sizable issue right now," says... Rick.

"What is it?"

"I passed out, and then David can't speak English anymore."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I spontaneously fainted, and when I woke up, he- he's speaking French involuntarily."

Nick can't help but snicker. He could imagine Rick melodramatically fainting with a flourish of his arm, exquisite eyelashes fluttering. And that language study in college is really coming back to haunt Dave, isn't it? But, yes, the situation is rather problematic. There is a little hermit of a thought itching in the back of his mind: _here comes karma, Nick._ Well, _no_ , he hopes.

Nick adds his addendum: "Um, sorry about that- it's not funny, isn't it?"

"A bit, actually, I'll give you that. Anyway, that's it, I guess-" and a faint something, "Attendre! Puis-je parler à Nick?", and a reply of, "I _still_ don't know what you're saying, David!" Nick laughs over the phone, it's just humourous like that. A pause, and the phone begins speaking.

"Nick, tu dois m'aider. Je déteste ça, je déteste la vie et j'ai pleuré partout Rick! J'ai peur qu'il ait maintenant l'impression que je ... aime les hommes. Oh mon Dieu, que se passe-t-il?"

"David, I have an abundance of sympathy, but I don't know French!"

"Je meurs ici!" is David's reply. "Allez, tu dois savoir quelque chose!"

"I don't know anything!"

Roger can hear all this banter upstairs. It sounds as if Nick is being interrogated by police, but when given the context that it was _Gilmour_ refusing to speak English, he could only slink in and eavesdrop (not really, he just stands beside Nick and listened to their altercation). Not understanding French himself, Roger could only devour Gilmour's plight as if it were masterful comedy (it, of course, was), and listened with bemusement. He wouldn't be surprised if David was purely incapable of speaking English, considering all the eventful chaos that churned just beneath the surface. Even though their fears had faded into casuality, there was simmering anxiety, the messy stew of problems acquiring new flavours and deeper richness, complexities and gradients- the issues combining to become more than the sum of their parts. Roger longs for some kind of normalcy, but here, this wasn't it. Nick is slowly unravelling in search of his wife, the humour over the cell providing some temporary fusing between the fraying ends, but it won't last. Roger had never known Nick to be neurotic, he was always rather lax, but in this situation, just all over the place _._ It's weaved into the walls that are slowly closing in, the floor that will grab you by the ankles and pull you down to Hell, the walls with eyes and the doors with ears.

Roger is grateful that he didn't have any relationships. Just a workhorse. Roger _was_ (direct emphasis on past tense) able to afford love, with the time and money he had, but his consuming incentives inclined him to work more, never rest, never sleep. _Some_ people noted him to be... unlikable, and the relationships never lasted, judging by the handful of wives that aren't wives any longer, collected like pins or trophies or cards. He can remember, nearly ten years ago (in linear time), swearing to the flocks of interviewers it'd (very most likely) be his last tour, but This Is Not A Drill existed (however, now obsolete due to changed circumstances). Would he, could he, return to music? He had already called Bob, but if he really had, maybe, three-quarters of a life left to live in a few days' time, would he want to spend it on another round of bass-playing, lyric-writing, composing or whatever? He could become a writer, a poet, or a novelist or something, but what else he wasn't sure of. Why _would_ he, though? Another opportunity, with maturity at play, concise perfection, _and_ being able to discuss important matters at hand...

_Ad nauseam, Roger,_ something says in the back of his mind.

Nick hangs up, and sighs. "God, too many problems right now." Roger shrugs, and stares at a smattering of sand on the floor. The short trail of sand goes across the floor, teasing his eyes along. He furrows his brow as it the sand gives way to a small puddle, and in that small puddle is a large... mussel?

"Hey, Nick, what's that mussel on the floor for?" Roger asks, and gestures at the mollusc.

Nick pivots his head to the side and down, staring at the glistening wet shellfish, and not half a second later, his expression is identical to Roger's. They know what each other is thinking.

This simple bivalve is so mind-boggling that all worldly processes seem to stop, and all there is is this tidepool denizen, lying on the floor, and dying in the barest traces of saline solution. Is it saline, is the thing Roger is wondering. Before you could say boo to the goose, he's down there, trying the mystery water, and, yes, it's salty. The faintest scent of the ocean seems to come from this anomaly.

"Why'd you do that?" Nick squints.

"I have no idea," Roger responds, fixation coming off. "Wonder where it's from." A pause, and he processes the question and the thing he'd just committed. "God, that was disgusting! Who knows what kind of shit's in that? Hepatitis B? Roundworms?" He twists his face in disdain, as if he's sinned. "Anyway," he says, still uncomfortable, "What's the meaning of this?"

"I don't know. What what I can do is imagine... the whole house just filling up with shellfish." Filler conversation, but who cares? A solitary mollusc proving to be a conversation piece really shows how simple the human mind is, revelational psychology.

"Don't jinx yourself," scoffed Roger. Their eyes meandered around the room, trying not to look at the mollusc. Gazes intersect, and move on, but follow a parallel path back to where they were looking.

Now there's a small cluster.

"Fuck," says Roger.

All Nick can do is picture the walls coated in mussels. He bends down, trying to pick one up, but they're firmly affixed to the floor. With a little twist, a bone-crunching snap is heard as a mussel comes off. It's intimately handled as Nick examines it, like a jeweller inspecting the validity of a gemstone. It's roughly teardrop-shaped, around ten centimetres long, and has a slag-like texture. Its narrow side is white and pearlescent, corrupted and betrayed by shades of cerulean. The blue is ribbed by a black amber; which eventually takes over at its wide side. This is an aesthetically pleasing shellfish, but its origins are dubious and disconcerting. He drops it. The encroaching preponderance of the mussel in this room, in this house, is terrifying.

"Let's leave this room. Close the door and hope it doesn't spread," orders Nick, and Roger executes the instructions. Broaching the half-open door, he first notices a prominent resistance to the casual effort that requires no energy- normally. Then, he smells this... _malodourity_ , foul and marine. Looking down, Roger sees a thick, rubbery, ropelike thing. It's a sickly greenish-brown, gleaming wetly, and like the sand to the mussel, it leads his eyes on. The thing stretches out of the doorframe's sight, and trails all the way down the hall. Eyes follow suit, and Roger notices that... there are slimy coils of leaves twisting limply all over the floor, and branching out are baubles, resembling boils. It's... _kelp?_ The oversized heterokont stretches all the way into the room at the end of the hall, draping its disgusting person comfortably over the bed in there, up the headboard, and out the... out the fucking window?!

"What's wrong?" asks Nick.

"It's kelp. Fucking kelp."

"What?" Nick peers out the doorway.

A sharp silence follows. Together, they're looking in horror at the massive hawser of a sea creature.

"Are you feeling threatened now? I am, definitely," sardonically mutters Roger.

"God, what's going on?"

"Absolutely no idea." Roger looks over his shoulder, and gets exactly what he expected. "Oh my fuckin'-" He taps Nick on the shoulder and points in the room. It's all mussels, walls, floors, and the door, shimmering maliciously.

"We should get out, _now._ "

"Agreed."

The two carefully stepped over the beached and housed kelp, and Roger pulls the door in a slamming shut, hearing the repulsive crunch of small mussels growing on the side of it. He sees the tail end of the kelp slithers up the stairs, bulbous root base sitting placidly in the living room. The whole first floor, it seems, is dusted with sand.

"Good grief," Roger says.

Nick puts his head in his hand, deeply exhales, and returning to normal, stares at the house in a peeved manner.

"Why?" he sighs.

"Not sure about that, either," shrugs Roger, and they step down the stairs. Halfway down-

**_AUUU AUUUU AUUU AUUU AUUU AUUU_** -

"A gull?" Roger twists around and looks up the stairs.

"I think we should leave," urges Nick, and suggestively gestures towards the exit. Roger, radiating exasperation, follows.

Another door- the exit, finally. Nick goes to unlock it. His hand progresses towards the doorknob, through the air, fifteen centimetres, ten, closer now, five, nearly contacted, one, and it touches the doorknob-

-And then he feels sick. What a progression.

"Errrr..." Nick groans, a wave of nausea coming over him. He leans against the wall, dizzier than a spinning top. 

"Are you okay?" Roger asks the ailing Nick, who looks pale and flushed, currently sliding down the wall like melting wax.

"I think... just open the door," he winces.

"Alright," Roger's concern is reflected in voice, though his expression says _'oh, well'_. His arm extends towards the doorknob, long fingers reaching out like a swan's flight in slow motion, and Nick watches through squinting and blurring vision. He can't possibly keep awake anymore. The conscious man's hand gets closer and closer, intricacy at every millisecond that passes- and the final touch. Nick feels like he's dying. Roger violently lurches, but he doesn't withdraw, he has a crushing grip on the knob, as if it were a hen he was taking to the slaughter who bit him. He's choking it almost, hand prominently straining in its effort, fingers stiff and angular. He twists it like twisting the chicken's neck, and jerks it open with a violent flourish.

Finally, Nick can let go, and smells the whiff of a sea breeze before passing out.

"Nick- Nick!" Roger sees the light, something hits him like a train, oh God, what is this awful skin-crawling feeling, I think I'm going to be sick, get that hair out of my face, where'd it come from, and promptly loses consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't crack, I swear- we'll get back to more depressed existential stumbling around in the next chapter, but of course, to hold the reader's interest, this chapter indicates a major shift, despite its absurdity. The next chapter will require lots of tolerance, due to the fact that space just like died  
> Edited past original posting for clarity and for a dash of mistakes- 3:46pm Oct 4


	8. Claret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhangers HATE them (this chapter)!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long to write, but I find it was very slogging to. However, production of the next chapter is well underway, so expect it by today, tomorrow, or the next- 10-11-20

October 19th, 11 GMT

As the hours pass by, the weather out causes some horrific situations. The incessant freezing rain hasn't stopped, and it looks like the deepest December, bypassing an entire season of falling temperatures and leaves, plunging headlong into winter. On a superficial level or a quick glance, the ice storm looks like a fresh coat of powder snow, but if one were to actually go outside and take a closer look, it would definitively be a glacial coat over the seaside town. Rick and David have given up trying to communicate with one another, but have reconciled to contact Nick and Roger. They don't seem to be picking up, and this is the fifth time Rick is attempting to call them, while David waits in muteness. The tones sound, and Rick waits expectantly.

"Come on, Nick, pick up..." he mutters to himself as the dial tone extends:  _ vrrrrr vrrrr vrrrrrrr _ , over and over again. Rick feels that Nick should've picked up by now. However, he might have other priorities, he may be in the middle of something with Roger, or cooking, or generally preoccupied, Rick doesn't know. It's been three hours, though...

_ Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice message. Please leave your message at the tone:  _

Rick sighs. "No luck," he tells David, and puts the phone on the nightstand. Smartphones were an interesting concept at the time Rick was still alive, and he hadn't expected them to grow so exponentially in the time he was absent. It's fascinating, this omniscient glass-and-plastic object, and the way it had conquered the world.

"Not good," says David, still with a disquieting accent; "I... think, uhhh, quelque- some's... maligned... bad." He was clearly struggling to find the right words, and Rick absolutely pities him. It's like watching a dog getting euthanised, making his stomach twist. This is Rick's fault, isn't it? David had some kind of mental breakdown when Rick had a mental breakdown (and then appeared to die), and is rendered unable to execute a single proper English sentence. 

_ So I am causing problems for other people. _

David seems to have receptive bilingualism, or something along the lines of that, because his clear intention is to write and/or speak English, but it comes out as French. He has made this clear with Rick, as his immense frustration swirls around the room in an angsty haze, and his 'neutral' posture is that of hunched shoulders, crossed arms, and a perpetually baleful look at the carpet. He also exclaims in exasperation every time he tries to write on the notepad. Now the desk is littered with torn out pages half-written French, David seeming to realise in the middle of it that he's failed to write in his native language. 

"Should we go feed the gulls?" Rick offers. Again, they really needed a way to pass the time.

"Ou- yes," David says, correcting himself, or trying to, since it sounds like  _ yeis.  _ They fetch three tins of put on their coats, scramble around looking for the keycard, and tiptoe out. Rick's staring down at the rather unattractive hallway shag, which is stiff and shabby, with abstract patterns in ochre and dingy grey. As a former collector of Persian rugs, he can tell that these are absolutely atrocious compared to the sheer effort and hard work that go into making the rugs. 

_ Who collects Persian rugs for a living? _

_ I did. _

_ You're ridiculous. _

They take a right, and go down the stairwell, concrete framed in metal. The footsteps echo off the acoustically receptive stairs, and as they descend, Rick is left speculating some more where Nick went. Nick, however open to picking up calls, especially from David's number, just... failed. Where'd they go after eight? Why did they go? Did they leave on their own will, or...

Rick had planned to meet the other two with David to discuss the new problem, and hopefully make poor Dave feel better, but it seems like they just... vapourised. Ceased to exist. Off the grid. 

They shuffle out under an overhang, and get to see, for the first time since early that morning, what the freezing rain has truly done.

"My..." Rick exclaims, staring at a mess of dripping icicles that had generated on the edge of the overhang from the chaotic weather. The parking lot is the personification of  _ expensive,  _ cars coated in three centimetre-thick layers of ice, and likely on the verge of being crushed by the weight of it. The lampposts have an increased cylindrical circumference, their original white supplementing a look of opacity. The lawn out next to the beach looks like a gutted candle, slathered splatters of waxlike frozen water absolutely mutilating the grass' original appearance. Though it looks perfectly preserved, it's all frozen to death, and will wilt into mush when this all melts... if it ever does. Rick does not want to slip again, and it seems nor does David, so the two are toeing along unevenly to get to the gulls.

"We need football cleats for this," mutters Rick. The simple walk turned treacherous, it's taking them a long time. There are no cars out on the road; they could crash due to the slippery conditions. It's completely deserted. Despite the rain this morning, at least some people were out, albeit not on the beach.

"Fant... Ghastly, mon Dieu." David says. They finish crossing the street, and make a mad dash for the lawn, only a metre away. Nearly losing his balance, Rick stumbles over, the loud crunch under Charlie's boots signalling he had crushed already-dead grass. Yes, he is wearing David's son's extra clothes, which don't fit perfectly; Charlie is a lot taller than Rick is. He feels uncomfortable about it, but David doesn't seem to mind, considering he had offered them in the first place. 

They take a long diagonal across the green, and then come across a cycle path, intersecting directly with Hove St., and walk across to a huddle of gulls situated under a brick and corrugated-tin directory station. The gulls scatter, but when Rick opens a tin of fish, they become intrigued. He peels one out of the oily congregation, and throws it on the ground with a  _ smack _ . He watches as they pitter up to the food, Rick having clearly gotten their attention, and war over the single fish on the floor. There's seven of them, six herring gulls and the other one. The Other One knows that the other gulls are too large to compete with, so it kind of meekishly hangs around in the corner. Rick gives it an individual fish, and it begins to peck at it expectantly. The herring gulls are too absorbed in their fight, so they don't notice... at first. The  _ atrocity of _ the underdog (or bird) having a fish to itself is all too great for them, and they begin to attack. However, the black-billed one subsequently picks up the fish and swallows it whole, the others screaming in anguish and outrage. Rick, anyway, stops pitting them against each other by giving them a generous amount of three; and then opens a new tin. It's quite amusing, seagull politics, and their freakishly human wailing adds to it. Soon, they're waiting there, staring at him expectantly, knowing he's a dispensary. David joins in, and if not for the ice-rain, they'd be harassed by a gull harem if they tried to leave. However, all the birds can do is squawk in indignation, mouths open and trailing, but stopping at the rainline, where they'd be exposed.

"That was nice," shrugs Rick, and notices he smells like fish. They turn back to go across the lawn, when...

"Um," David says, and Rick notices immediately what he's talking about. It seems, without notice, fog has rolled in, but it's not that. There's a building in the middle of the lawn.

"Je dois juste dire, dommage que vous ne compreniez pas, mais que fait une maison là-bas? Sérieusement, je ne peux même pas invoquer un gramme de logique pour cela," David rants in French.

"Er, okay," says Rick passively, attention on the building. It has vague Victorian-style architecture, with three floors. It's also horizontally layered, a few metres' worth of extra house protruding from half of it. This also is true for a smaller room. The first floor is made out of vivid red brick, which repeats itself in a brick-half-brick pattern; and some are ornately structured to curve around the arched windows. This is contrasted by the frames of the windows and front door being painted in robin's-egg blue. It also features two arched windows, bookending two three-panelled windows side-by-side. White-painted wrought iron is carelessly tossed around the windows, which makes the three-panelled type look like flowery jail bars. However, the symmetry is all in vain, for the door, painted in white, sits comfortably between the right pair of windows. It proudly displays its number,  **_ 1271 _ ** in brass italics. This attempted symmetry is further interjected by a large wedge of a staircase, also brick, railings also made of wrought iron. 

This ascends to the second floor, which along with the third floor, is painted in the same eggshell as the door. There seems to be a succinct lack of features on the last right third of the building, which is barely compensated for by a vague relief; wine-bottle shape, but it translates into a small chimney. The roof is embroidered by a reverse-scallop pattern, which is then edged by the blue, giving way to a brick-shingled roof. The first layer of shingles in sight disappears out of view. 

"Well, then, let's get going," shrugs Rick. "Before something else happens." He turns to walk, takes one step, and then  _ tout a coup- _

"AuGAh," is his mediocre startled noise, nearly falling as he stumbles back. A stop sign has spontaneously appeared where he was about to step. 

David bursts into laughter, and abruptly stops.

"Oh,  _ non _ ," il fronce les sourcils. "What'd just happen?", and il- regarde, regard, pensive.., pensive... Is ce English? C'est bien, he thinks. This... est a'accord.  _ C'est a belle bâtiment, I think.  _ Good. This is well...

Rick est- is reguard...ing avec horreur (horror?) le rouge en colère 'STOP' signe, which aurait pu l'em- impaléd him, ou quelque chose. 

"You okay?" David question..ne.../s.

"Yes," frémit Rick, terrifié. Ou terrified.  _ Or _ terrified.

"Mo- my English est- est...  _ est-  _ **_ EST-  _ ** ughh, est fine," tries David, who may have just contradicted his own words, but maybe not. For David, it must feel like  _ years _ have passed, despite it only being four hours.

"Well, good, because I feel awful for you," sighs Rick, still coming over his startled jolt. "As I was saying, let us leave." David nods in agreement. "Yes," is his only piece of dialogue. They begin to walk briskly, crackling of grass blades under their shoes. The building shows no sign of leaving, nor does that stop sign, planted diagonally. 

In theory, does this building even exist? David and Rick are turning into old concepts, fragments of time, so do they exist, either? So, if they're the only ones around, it does not (maybe.  _ If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?  _ Well, David and Rick had witnesses, but those witnesses were anonymous and/or wouldn't leak to the press. Rick brushes some ice out of his hair, the cold against his skin. The time is about eleven-thirty, the place is Hove, England, but the building is doing something, something that Rick doesn't like. In the middle of all this mess, it's changing again.

"We should go faster," insists Rick, who is speed-walking now, David suddenly noticing and trotting behind.

"Why?" David asks.

"The building, I think. It's doing something," says Rick, now in a haughty stride. "Just... come on." It's making him irritable now. Is the grass melting? He frowns, barely slowing to notice the fact that it's sodden and lacking its distinct crunch.

"Dave," Rick sighs, "This is not good."

"What?" is yet again another inquiry of David.

"Well, look!" Rick toes the grass, and realises his hair is beginning to become wet. Looking up, it's normal rain.

"Ice pluvial event is over," notes his counterpart. "It's okay. English has a melange de 7,700 words with French. A... lot en commun."

"Interesting, good. Yet another problem comes in a solution's wake." 

"The glace pluie is over, isn't it? Auture que le building, what is the problème?"

"I feel like, other than the obvious problem of it appearing out of thin air, this place is doing a vague something that I can't exactly describe. The fact that..." He trails off and looks over his shoulder to try and remember what it is of a fact.

"Dave," He's alarmed by the sight within itself,  _ another thing _ , smack in the middle of the English Channel. " _ Dave, we need to run _ ."

"Quel?" David regards le channel, et voit un pont suspendu dans le brouillard. Il ne peut pas distinguer toutes les fonctionnalités, mais il est certain d'une chose: ce n'est pas de la Manche.

"Uh..." est tout ce qu'il peut dire, debout là-bas, sidéré. "I... cannot comprehend this." Pourtant, cependant, Rick est à mi-chemin sur l'herbe, dans la terreur absolue du pont.

_ Dois-je même suivre? _

Rick, malheureusement pour lui, trébuche et tombe par la suite. David, en peu de temps, se précipite pour s'occuper de la victime.

"Are you okay?" David inquires, Rick toujours sous le choc de ses pertes.

"No," Rick siffles, agitated. "Let's leave."

David lève les yeux et pendant la seconde la plus brève, ne voit pas Hove, mais complètement ailleurs-

Silence, obscurité. Étouffé comme une allumette.

Time Unknown

The sound... he can't tell what it is. Everything's distorted, swirling, and yet his eyes are closed. The light becomes brighter, yet still darkness. What is this sound? He's so cold, and would be shivering if he wasn't too tired to, but sleep is leaving him in a trail of a half-remembered dream, which is quickly forgotten when his mind begins to stir. What's this sound? It's waking him up, and he's heard it before. It's the sound of waves that crashes against the rocks that rouse Nick. These sounds, they're... close, and violent, yet so far away, and peaceful. It's cold, incredibly cold and windy, but Nick doesn't mind. It's okay, it's all going to be okay. Water drawing out, smashing back in, breathing in, breathing out. Howling wind, low and whistling, high and screaming. It's a perfect stasis, and he is content to stay in this half-conscious state forever. What is life here? Does it matter? 

Apparently, yes, because he is already proceeding to open his eyes. It's dark, completely dark, even and he suddenly has to question where he is. Exactly,  _ Where am I _ ? He's on a rock... now, why would he be on a rock? It's coarse and sharp and irritating, so Nick feels inclined to get off. He was sleeping, somehow, on a rock, and how did he end up here? Something having to do with a...

_ Oh, no. _

Nick is immediately surprised, and subsequently disconcerted. He twists around and looks up from his laid-down state. It's not entirely dark, but very dim and foggy, but when he looks up at the right places, he sees stars. The rock is, in actuality, is quite a few metres tall, a peninsula nightmarishly lapped at by churning water. He feels so small, compared to everything... except a bouquet of carnations and light and dark roses, situated right before the drop. Nick's not sure what it's there for, maybe a memorial. It's vague, with colours muted, and Nick struggles to think. What exactly with the beach, and why  _ oh no _ ? Who is he, and why is he here? What does, as in himself, want?

Answers are rapidly given, in the obvious. Not good, this predicament is not good at all.

W _ here's Roger?  _ He looks in front of him, to the left (obviously not, that's like a kilometre of sea), to the right, and behind him, again. Nothing. He looks again. Nope. And a third time... Wait a minute. That  _ thing _ over there... is that really a rock?

Nick squints, which only makes his poor vision worse, but it expresses his ocular inquiry. He gets up, with some effort. The high wind makes him totter dangerously, and he sticks his arms out to compensate for the compromised balance. This doesn't do much; and he looks down, where he feels he could easily be if he takes one wrong step. Drowned and dead. He approaches his short three-metre destination, and stands over. At last, here is the thing. Instantly recognizable, if it's not Roger, then what is? He's awkwardly sprawled out, face-down, and Nick does not want to disturb him. The mere thought prospect is too intimidating. So, Nick stands here, gawking like a hawk, feeling artless as a philistine.

Roger's not sure what's going on, but he's immediately apprehensive, the context of the last time he was awake coming back. He observes without eyes. There are waves, there's the wind, there's a presence. And Roger's being stabbed in the face. He turns over, groaning, and the sea scent hits him.  _ That's _ where he is, a beach, a beach of some sort... He opens his eyes. There are stars in the sky, vaguely twinkling, and the breeze flies over his person. It feels alien, foreign.

He sits up, and breathes deeply, eyes adjusting to the darkness. A leg is there, and it prompts him to look up, straight into the disturbed and barely visible Nick, who is as still as a statue.

"Nick?" Roger tries to get his attention. He hears his own voice in his ears, but it's blown away in the wind. Nick doesn't notice, so Roger has to stand up, and is less than a metre away. "Nick." 

Nick notices, and looks up at him. "Roger, there's something wrong here." Roger contemplates on this, he did notice his voice sounds a bit strange, but that's all... is it?

"Well, obviously," Roger says. "Do you know where we are?"

"No," is the flat statement of Nick. 

"Can we leave this rock?" suggests Roger.

"Yes, that seems appropriate," shrugs Nick. They shuffle around, trying to find a way down. The rocks are not too slippery, being granite-like. Once they get down the crown of the rocks, there's a series of tidepools, indicated by the weak shine of the water against the sky, housing somethings in them.

Something catches Roger's eye. "Are those mussels?" He halts. "Nick, look." Nick seems to turn around, and in the half-darkness, there are odd shapes in the pools of water. They're all shells, and Roger feels around, finds something, and fishes it out.

"Er," says Nick who sees the shape. Roger offers it to him, and it drips freshly as he examines the oddly familiar silhouette of a shellfish. "Not sure if it's the same kind."

"Of course it is!" declares Roger. "What else? And- Nick, look here," he picks up a small section of... this  _ hose  _ of seaweed, grossly mucosed, so long that one wouldn't be able to count its metres on their hand. It's about eight centimetres in diameter, and slightly glimmering in the fading starlight. "Kelp! Again! We're somewhere else, completely else!" He drops it with a loud slap against the rocks.

Nick can only stand there in passive confusion. "I think the sun is rising," he says rather unhelpfully but is stumped as to what to actually think.

"Well, yes," says Roger. "So we can gauge the time... which may be anywhere from five to eight. But exactly  _ where _ is what we need to know. I swear, if this isn't England-"

Nick is silent. This place is looking a bit familiar, he thinks he's seen it before. Somewhere...

"It's kind of a Schrodinger's cat situation, maybe?" wonders Roger. "This could be easily mistaken for another beach, and that reality would only be solidified if we questioned..."

"We're most likely stuck here," says Nick. "No time to dwell on weak hopes." He shrugs, and there's silence. 

A long pause, idling... 

An a _ wful _ crunch, repulsive to the third degree, and Nick cringes. He turns to look at where the source is from, which is now under Roger's shoe, though it's struggling to get out of the monochromatic duskiness.

"Roger, what exactly did you do?" he squints, flummoxed.

"Crushed the mollusc out of spiteful compulsion," Roger flatly states, in low definition looking down with arms crossed, and foot maybe finishing smothering the poor mussel.

"God, that's disgusting," scoffs Nick. "I thought you were a sensible person."

"What makes you think a sensible person doesn't commit shellfish homicide?" countered Roger. "I have burning angst, and slaughtering the root cause appeases my hatred."

Nick whickers. "It's spending the precious minutes," is his half-serious argument.

He makes a barely seen gesture, they go down and across the rocks, and soon are in the midst of sand. They're on one side of a small beach. Small, pale pebbles make up the sand, and there's a sharp incline leading from the shore, whose waves struggle to go uphill. There's seaweed strewn all around in dark tangles, and large, smooth-weathered stones, half-buried like mysterious artefacts. 

"So, what?" questions Nick. Roger shrugs. 

As always, just when the dust settles, it's kicked back up again. Because of that, they're always feeling around in the dark. Nick is frustrated with his perpetual cluelessness. Why does it always have to be this way?

_ Some people have been in chaotic situations for their whole life. Why are you complaining? It's only been a mere eighteen days. _

_ This is permanent. This cannot be undone. Do you realise the gravity of this situation? Nick, you've been living in ignorance, you thought it was never going to happen, that it wasn't happening at all. But it came up from behind you, because you turned your back on it... _

Nick feels slightly unhinged, and realises he had spaced out for a few minutes. It seems like all of a sudden, there's a bit of a reddish tinge in the sky, scattering in the fog as an ominous, deep vermilion in the opening day. He can see things a bit more clearly for the first time.

"I already hate this," mutters Roger from a few metres away, and wanders off somewhere behind the rocks. Birds have begun crawling out of the woodwork, another sign that the morning has broken. There's a few gulls wheeling in the sky, and behind him in the chaparral, there's a flock of trilling birds, black with red wing patches, that have seemed to come out of nowhere. What's this all got to do with birds? Nothing, really.

There's sagebrush and scattered yellow daisies, along with some unknown spherical pink blooms. Nick appreciates their aroma; with effervescing agitation swirling around in his head. To distract himself, he picks a daisy and concentrates on it, trying to push the agitation to the back of his mind. 

Roger comes out from behind the rocks, with something. "How cruel," he says, and Nick glances briefly, and sees he's holding the backpack that he'd arrived at Nick's house with, along with a  _ certain _ case.

"Why the bass?" Nick wonders, returning back to the bloom, idly picking a petal. This seems to be working. It's okay, it's fine. Everything is fine.

"The universe is idiosyncratic, and we're receiving the brunt end of it," is Roger's reply. "Also," he says, and hands Nick an object... is that his wallet?

"Er-" Nick loosely handles it, and puts it in a coat pocket. What coat was this?  _ Just look at the flower. _

Brimstone flora and fiery light clashing, resulting in orange. He desperately clings on to it. 

"I swear, I cannot tell  _ anyone _ how much, no matter how many times I say it. Everything is up to chance, to the whims of whatever external force this is, and we're relegated to our reactions," is the continuing monologue of Roger. He seems very cross with the 'external force'. Nick isn't, the daisy's fine, it's helping, or is it the external force? Is this the enemy?

"We should be glad that we weren't left with nothing," murmurs Nick, only half-listening, who picks another petal, smothering it between his fingers and flicking it onto the sand.

"It put us into this situation in the first place! Everything, all of it! Why couldn't I just die in peace already? Or at least have more time to organise myself?! No, apparently, we  _ need  _ to be completely lost and have no fucking clue where or who we are!" 

"Roger, calm down-"

"How am I supposed to calm down  _ now? _ When did I ever calm down since this thing started?  _ Never _ ! I've lived in fear and paranoia and alienation, and now we're stuck here!" Roger's peaking hysteria piques Nick, and he lets go of his concentration, just for now, to tend to the man who sounds like he's a dying hawk. 

"Rog, please."

"Does the time even matter, and why should we bother to figure out?" Roger's voice is suddenly contemplative, as he rummages through his backpack, going through some pockets or something, and freezes. "Ah," he says, and with a slightly lightened expression, pulls out... his phone. Momentarily, he treats it like alien technology, foreign and too advanced to comprehend. Then, he realises what he's doing, and remembers what it is, wasting no time in proceeding to operate it. 

"The time is seven-fifteen, it's... October 20th, not much time elapsed," he informs Nick, and does some fiddling. A dial tone sounds.

"Who are you calling?" asks Nick, who is looking up towards the sky, which is a confused melange of different warm colours- predominantly red. It's one or the other.

"The other two."

"Oh... right." Roger's doing something, and squints at some unknown information on the phone.

"That's five missed calls from David's number? I, er, guess calling should be on our agenda first, anyway." 

Rick hears something...  _ is that a cellphone? It is, hm. _

_ What happened? _

He realises that he's been sleeping while sitting. And there's a wall behind him, a... he takes out a weak, hand and limply feels the wall. It's rough, segmented. Is this brick? What happened? He blinks without opening his eyes, and just barely squints, light stabbing through the smallest visual crack. It's white, all white. Is he dead? Because Rick would not like to be dead, and he'd appreciate not being. With a reluctant tension he pauses- and opens his eyes-  _ God, it hurts!  _ He winces, but eventually, his eyes adjust to the brightness, and he twists around to investigate this wall. Yes, it's brick, fire-red...

Rick's eyes swiftly trace up, and it immediately registers:  _ the building _ . He begins to disorganisedly pick himself up, scrambling back, looking at it in horror. It looms over, terrible and imposing in Rick's ground perspective. He... what is this place?! It diverts his attention, and he takes the notice to look around. It seems the building is not misplaced; but rather Rick. It's surrounded by all its neighbourly houses, in the same Victorian style, in its natural habitat, now accompanied by side yard, and edges a small intersection in the streets somewhere. He looks to his right, where, yes, a STOP sign (among others with their back turned to him, but he could tell by the hexagonal shape). He's pretty sure where this is, the city in its full context definitely brings back brief memories of a certain place and a certain film...

Oh- he overlooked David, who was resting there, to the left of him, peacefully, if not ungracefully, like he was propped up there while unconscious. Which he likely was, somehow. Today is nineteen-eighty-eight, a strange year. Of course, Rick was in the state of being assimilated back into the band, and he knew that it was more...  _ personal _ , more personal than the proprietary distance they had set between each other, the slow drift apart after they got what they wanted. Now, it was just three men, doing  _ whatever _ with their music. That meant not existing in a pseudo-relationship, set in the alienating businesslike environment woven together by PR, managers, the reverence of the fans, Roger's complex of contrivances and his slipping of unsolicited expulsions. Rick hadn't expected the other two to be so hospitable, especially they 

"Dave," Rick says. David doesn't stir, Rick's voice merely a whisper.

" _ Dave _ ," he repeats, a bit more pronounced. Still asleep, his meekness is proving ineffective.

" ** David. ** "

This seems to do  _ something _ . Rick doesn't want to be rude and prod him awake. A sharp and sudden inhale, and David's disorientation shows itself. 

"Wai- quel, où?"

Oh... that's right.

"David," says Rick, "Er, good morning?"

This seems to scare David for a second, who immediately opens his eyes wide, staring straight at Rick, pupils constricting to pinpoints. Then, he seems to remember, and his rapidly constructed shock crumbles. Blinking, he notices the surroundings.

"Uh...  _ Rick? _ "

"Yes?" is Rick's cordial response.

"O- W-w-w _ here,  _ en precisement, are nous?" The question, though broken, is easy enough to understand.

"I think I have an idea," replies Rick. At least now he has a bit of a handle on this. When he had visited this city while Pink Floyd was touring, and for two days on the On An Island Tour, maybe, he found it rather nice. He would've never thought of  _ this _ place, of all places, as relevant. Why not New York? Why not Lisbon? Why not Dublin? Why not... well, no, Kansas was tenfold worse than this, but still... 

He remembers the time they were in Oakland, how they looked across to the shining city across a bay, linked by bridges, swathed by fog, the mythic urban dwelling-

"My question, emplacement?"

"-San Francisco."

Yes, that's it. San. Fran. Sis. Co. The San Francisco Bay, the Golden Gate Bridge,  _ California. _ California, for God's sake! How far away is  _ that _ from Hove?

"Non... Est-ce correct? You certain?"

"Not entirely. However, I can attest to the geography and architecture."

" _ Encore _ ,  _ ceci _ ? Plus problems? I'm pensive, je voux mourir déjà," he puts his head in his hands. "Too... Too excess en ce moment."

They stare up at the orange sky between the buildings. They're so lost that they're not even sure if this is bad or not. The situation in Hove was only slightly more stable; so what did this amount to?

"Where  _ are  _ they?" Roger hisses. "I'm going to re-dial."

"Don't you think they might be busy?"

"No concept of this in our crisis." He dials in their number again.  _ Come on! Stop making out and pick the fuck up! _

The phone rings again. David takes it out of his pocket with raised eyebrows. Looking at the number, it was already obvious who it was.

"Roger," he tells Rick, and hands him the phone like a business card. Rick takes it, and answers the phone.

"Hello?" he inquires the phone.

"Is this David, or Richard?" is Roger's voice over the phone.

"It's Rick," replies Rick. "What is it? We're in the middle of something."

"Hold on. What?"

"If you happened to be displaced, you'd know." Rick was feeling rather irritated.  _ Can't you just leave us alone to sort out the situation? _

"You... mean like, mm, so say if you woke up on a beach in the middle of nowhere?"

"Yes. Yes, like that. Precisely like that. Exactly like that... uh, how'd you guess?"

"Is this the same cruel parallels again?"

"I suppose," Rick shrugs. "You should find out where you are, soon, and maybe we can track each other down."

** IN FAR OFF CALIFORN-YER **

** THERE IS NO NATURAL PLAN. **

** IT'S MIGHTY BRANCHING, **

** AND ITS PREPONDERANT BOWS **

** WEIGH HEAVY ON A SUN-TANNED MORNING. **

"I will. There's not much left to say, better get going."

"Alright, then. See you later, maybe."

The phone hangs up, and Roger is left once again with the dial tone. As so is life. You are born alone, and die alone. And the other similarity is that you have to recognise something's real fucked up when the other line begins speaking backwards at a rabbit's pace. Something is  _ wrong _ , right, Wright?

"Well, Nick," Roger turns around, and is startled at the...  _ absence  _ of Nick. He had a distinct feeling that he had his shoulder being looked over, having his neck being breathed down, but there was thin air where Nick stood.

"Nick- Nick!" Roger's knees are weak, he's already stumbling around like a crane with a malformed foot, or a man in the middle of the desert. He's not alone, is he? Looking around, he sees nil, absence of other persons, where did Nick go, what happened, what did I do, what do I do, when do I do it, why am I doing this-

"Roger!" His attention is abruptly focused, and Nick was actually  _ up _ , having gone a few metres up the slope. "There's a road here. And a trail. And houses some way over there. And a town." he sighs. "We're not in the middle of nowhere."

Roger is internally gasping for air... Was that a near-panic attack? It must be not very obvious, because Nick, thankfully, doesn't notice. Was it even justified? Nick was gone for maybe... ten seconds.  _ I'm not that unstable. _

Roger doesn't want to dwell on it.

Without a word, he follows up the slope of assorted succulents and chaparral. He observes what Nick describes, and, yes, more shore, a smattering of houses. Hadn't he seen this before? This feels disconcertingly familiar, but not too familiar. Like it'd been brought to his attention once before. He's never been here, that's for sure, but to have never seen it? 

"I suggest we take a walk there?" 

"If you say so."

It takes them only three minutes to realise that there were a lot more traces of civilisation than they thought, and Roger recognises this from his dream. How, as he'll say again, cruel. The pebbles turn into soft sand, and the cypresses rear their twisted branches, and roadsides, trails, and modernist houses of the rich have set themselves down onto dune-mangling properties. Other than that, some kind of shrub carpets the landscape, only being upstaged by the trees, who have been made irrationally-shaped by the harsh winds here. A few cars slink down the long and lonely road. The is greying, a sheet of overcast sliding over the breaking dawn, and the chatter of birds falls away in the wind. The sky is barely holding its dam of darkness, straining to keep in the light. Everything is on edge, because when the sun rises, that's when the night leaves, doesn't it? It feels like night is never going to go, it's going to cement itself in Roger's life. There's an undertone of desperation to all of this, he thrashes around in futility. Even though the sunrise means new beginnings, a new day, it's mere symbolism, and won't help at all. Especially because it's a foreign sunrise on a foreign land. The time irrationally stretches out, and Roger begins to wonder how long they've walked. Despite the characteristics of each passing scene, it feels all the same. They're on a consistent path, but he feels lost...

The trees momentarily break to the right, and he just has to face-palm at what he sees. Past the nine hundredth  _ PARK OFF PAVEMENT _ sign, golf course. A literal fucking  _ Golf Course _ . Golf is the ultimate capitalist 'sport' (if you could call it that), no less that Trump goes there instead of paying his taxes or doing his presidential duties (Whatever, he's shit at it anyway). And, as a casual appreciator of nature, he can imagine what could've been there, instead of  _ this _ abomination.

"Roger, look," He didn't notice it, too busy looking to the right at the trees and such. There's a glimpse of some kind of building. As they come closer, they see a sign:  _ Beachcomber Inn. _

"Apparently, we are in an English-speaking country," Nick concludes as they walk past the mess of rocks, and weeds trying to grow on the impenetrable dust trail. 

"That could be England, Scotland, Ireland, America, Australia, New Zealand, or a tourist-oriented region," counters Roger. "Absolutely no reassurance in that." They stare at the dingy tan and dull pink sprawl, two stout floors stacked on top of each other, confused by its convolutions of stairs and balconies and windows and lights and all of those styleless motel features. Shuffling past shrivelled flower spikes of some alien plant species and rosette-looking succulents, there's a poor restaurant being physically devoured by a second block of the inn. The upstairs management looks like just another room. It's halfheartedly embellished with abstract snakes, and a sun ornament stares demurely down on them, seeming out of place on the entrance overhang adjacent to the door. A randomly placed bench, with a scalloped crest as its only significant feature, also looks to be plucked out of nowhere. Peering inside the window, it's empty and dark, closed to the morning. It has the number 1996 (and 1/2, in smaller numbers and below) placed vertically in viridian. Parallel with tall yellow daisies and geranium, trying to be noticed, is the piscially decorated, three-panelled sigh that moans its name,  _ FISHWIFE: FRESH SEAFOOD AND PASTA. _

There's a road sign over there, in front of them. Roger reads it:  _ ADOPT-A-HIGHWAY. Community Hospital of...  _

The Monterey Peninsula? Oh,  _ no _ . California? You're serious right now, aren't you? Are you  _ mad _ ? 

"Nick, you read that?" Roger contemptuously points at the sign, " _ That _ , is where we are."

"Monterey? Monterey, as in the Monterey Pop and/or Jazz Festival and, you know, maybe other things?" Flashbacks of watching Hendrix on the telly burn his guitar like an occult ritualist floated around in Roger's head. Maybe it is interesting for that, but it's terrible for the other problems at hand. They needed  _ some _ focus,  _ some _ stability, but no. Absolutely NOT. You don't get a fucking scrap of it, have fun drowning in the river!

"Exactly. I think, at least. I don't remember there being any other Montereys, as in, you know, a single r'd Monterey."

"I would like to say that this an inconvenience," sighs Nick.

"An understatement. I knew it, this was already going to be terrible." Roger walks around in a circle, looks up in indecision, trying to think. What exactly does one do in this situation? After a few moments, he presents his thinking. "Where are we even going?" he asks Nick, and himself.

"I have no idea," supplies Nick.

"Alright: I'm going to make two consecutive calls. That's all I can do right now, if you may tolerate. Make calls, Richard and Erzin."

Nick shrugs and nods. "Go ahead." 

They turned to the left, crossed the small street, walked past the architecturally homogeneous, but texture and colour-wise unique buildings, and found a wide intersection. There were four options from here. They could go back, they could go forwards, to whatever Fort Mason (ha ha) was, an incredibly long road, that had lots of buildings vehemently staring down the line. The last option went uphill and out of sight, which seemed short, but they knew it was longer.

They agreed on that. 

"What do you think about this place?" Rick asked, eyes wandering... it was a world away from England, a world away from anywhere else. He had faint memories of studying Victorian architecture in college. Though he wasn't very interested in it at all, already in the back of his mind planning to change studies to photography, and the other fact that it was a lengthy amount of time ago...  _ How _ ? Even for 1988, that was over twenty years, but it's like a regressed and abruptly re-progressing disease.  _ Will you, will you please shut up about the native redwood lumber production leading to the vast amount of Painted Ladies? I- I am dying through your discussion on that particular type of material's soft grain type having attractive carvability, nor the fact that its high amount of tannins deters termites- Look, I don't care, I'm just a musician, for God's sake!  _

"It is according," responded David. "Or it... devrait être, la reason is nous, you, moi, (making a gesture at Rick and himself) nous sommes dislocated. Tout est unstable. Notably... nous- er, us. External à ça, I imagine."

"Yes, I think the environment is nice, but the situation is severe," summarised Rick. "I don't even know where we're going."

"Phone maps do exist, if you are not informed."

"Really?"

So David had shown Rick another facet of the technologically superlative near-future, being Google Maps and all its bizarre workings.

"So... the closest place I recognise is... Hold on, it's meaning to tell me we're only three miles from the Golden Gate Bridge?" The entire display was graphically smooth and polished, taking on a minimal style that was apparently seemed popular these days. It was a far cry from the bright, pixellated and jumbled cyberspace of the '90s and early 2000s. The seeds of gentrification on the Net was seen by Rick, even before he died, only as a casual user and observer, however. Rapid corporate takeover was too hard not to notice, especially when e-mails (his main business on there) were becoming the lifeblood of professional messaging. Eventually, you have to take a peek at the other things on the Net. But, it's not like he was ever invested in CD-ROMs or online music technologies. Not much of a loss, but a thought.

"Vraiment?" David examines the sheer proof. "Additionally, Pier 39 et l'autre pont... Bay p-Bridge? Touristic zone, non?

"Yes, let's turn back before anyone sees us-"

"Are you not pensive... persons have regarded us, regarded us in... motors, sur le cement, that generic chose. No certainty," David looks around, mildly suspicious. 

"Agreed, but, of course, before more potentially irreversible damage is done."

The other nods. They linger around a mail bin, and see a thick wall of cloud rolling down the street.

"Where should we even go? Is there a point of going anywhere?" Rick continues. The fog is coming at a rapid pace, ground clouds, swallowing everything in its path.

"Pas certain," David shrugs. "N'a jamais ete."


	9. Mulberry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Do you understand the reason why the chapters are named this way? Kudos to you if you figure it out. And no, it's not a Pink Floyd reference.)  
> ANYWAY, alternative title: Two Davids' Point Of View In This Chapter? Seriously Blagtiwitenois, Why Are You Trying To Indoctrinate Us?  
> ANYWAY, foreshadowing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay; it's just I find I'm falling asleep at two-thirty A.M. instead of three-thirty, and wasting quite a lot of time on work (yeah we don't need work just writing)

October 20th, 2 P.M. PST

David and Rick have chipped at their time by confusedly stumbling around the Californian streets, up, down, sideways, winding (oh dear, Lombard Street), you name it. They're numbly tired, sore, but don't really recognise it and trudge on. Initially, they were trying to use the internet maps to get around, but realised they had no way to regenerate the phone's battery. So, they hang onto its remaining ten per cent (it was already low when they started using it for navigation) for dear life. Trying to judge on where to go by the narrower, quieter street wasn't exactly the greatest idea, as the two had found this big intersection, and took a smaller route down a darker street. Rick realised it was too late: the tourist magnet that is the Ghiradelli Chocolate Factory, and the congregation of places that have grown around it, was absolutely swarmed with people. They had the unfortunacy of accidentally stumbling upon it, and scrambled back up the street before anyone could see them. A close shave, almost nicked them.

They slithered down North Point Street, but was getting all too big for them. So, they turned inland onto Hyde Street, where they took a bit of a strenuous hike on the continuously upwards street. Dumped Hyde for the leftwards Chestnut Street, a short walk there, then took a right to get to Leavenworth. This placed seemed quieter... Right? When they walked up a further bit, they were quite shocked by Lombard Street. This was incredibly convoluted with dangerously sharp turns, mandating that cars go no faster than five miles per hour via a yellow diamond sign. But that wasn't exactly surprised them, it was the sheer amount of people. So they cowardly ran back down Leavenworth, and continued on Chestnut. A long walk down that street, and they turned onto Jones. All of these streets were crammed to the corners with Victorian apartments, but up the long Jones were a few apparent skyscrapers.

But since it was rather devoid of people, they continued on that route. It was a very long and tiring walk up, and near the skyscrapers, which were really high-risers, they noticed a small gateway framed by plants and sidled by flats. This was apparently Macondray Lane, lush, green, and narrow. It was a bit dangerous, however, as they intercepted some people walking through, fortunately without any issue. This finally ended, apparently a shortcut to Taylor Street, which headed downhill towards the bay. They agreed to go down, but take a left-or-right on some random street. That was Filbert Street, which intersected with Columbus Avenue to create a rather busy place, but more of a locality than a tourist destination, and so they braved it out and continued on Filbert. There was a stunning church there across the street, the gleaming white Saints Peter and Paul. This was flanked by sculptures of a lion, a woman, an eagle, and a cow. All had wings, as angels, and were holding books face-open to the viewer.

This is where they are now. Glossy, yellow-eyed, noisy beggar blackbirds hop around their feet, chattering as if to ask for food. They don't have any, of course, and it is, as well, the next thing on their itinerary. It's an affluent Tuesday for most people, who to the left of Rick are idling in the grass with their young children, or who are the elderly talking in scattered groups. _The elderly_.... he'd rather not think about that. The rough, braided trunks and silver leaves of the small grove of olive remind him of Greece, the faint smell of the sea... the drifting blue waters, the urban gulls... He blinks harshly. Yes, a lot of things here are vaguely Mediterranean. It's strange to see the sun again, which has momentarily broken from behind the clouds, dappled by the shadows of leaves, shimmering. They pick up the pace here, being that there are more people, and the moment of tranquillity is lost. The sidewalk moves under their feet, and through a zebra-striped crosswalk, they reach the other side of the street, darker and narrower. There's a signpost that holds banners for the California Academy of Sciences on the top, **_SPEED HUMP_** in the middle _,_ and on the bottom, a green rectangle in white letters and an arrow pointing left saying COIT TOWER. They pass by it without any regard for the signs, considering all three's irrelevance. Under a magnolia, Rick momentarily pauses to read the awning for a narrow entrance. Washington Square Inn. Doesn't matter. He skirts after David. A Victorian, bland pink-beige with copper-green frames, another powder blue, past that candy floss, charcoal and grey with red double doors and garage panelling.

"These colours are ridiculous," sighs Rick. "But they are rather pretty."

"Rick, tu n'as pas besoin d'ajouter conversation. Il n'y a rien à faire, rien à dire. Tais-toi," David dit, tout en français . _Je le fais exprès cette fois..._

"I still won't suddenly understand you," replies Rick.

David clears his throat. "Er... yes, I accord."

C'est a bit difficult d'essayer de navigating entre the mots of Français-English. The articles dont il parle très bien, mais réapprendre les mots et essayer de prendre des raccourcis pour que Rick has the capacity to le comprehend is irritating. David sait qu'il is censé penser en English et parler en English, mais il absolutely can't. David is fatigued by tout ça, he a besoin de se défouler.

Il attend, devient de plus en plus pressurisé. David ne peut plus supporter le stress, pensant trop. Rick est trop précieux pour cela, David ne peut pas abandonner l'incrédulité que Rick soit vivant. C'est une obsession, presque comme l'amour, et David ne peut pas s'arrêter. Il veut toujours pleurer à chaque fois qu'il voit Rick, dans la joie et le désespoir. Et si tout cela n'était qu'un rêve, un mensonge? Rien de tout cela n'est cimenté dans la réalité, et la simple pensée que Rick pourrait être mort donne envie à David de crier d'angoisse, et en même temps il veut sa famille, il veut avoir l'amour de sa femme et de ses enfants. Si c'est réel, il n'en verra probablement jamais aucun. Pauvre, pauvre Rom, pauvre Charlie, pauvre Polly, et bien que tous les autres fussent plus indépendants, il se sentait toujours mal pour eux. Il a besoin d'en parler à quelqu'un, même s'il ne comprend pas. Il le dira à Rick maintenant. Maintenant.

"Rick, tu es mon meilleur ami. Je pleure à l'intérieur chaque nuit, et chaque jour je me souviens des moments que nous avons passés ensemble. Je ne peux pas dire en anglais à quel point j'aime être avec toi. Tu es une personne merveilleuse - je te donnerais des roses comme un amant! Mais Rick, j'ai peur que tu t'effondres en poussière à chaque seconde, et cela me terrifie. S'il te plaît Rick, es-tu réel? Est-ce que tout cela est réel? Etes-vous un fantome? S'il vous plaît, s'il vous plaît, dites-moi." David a dit cela d'un neutral tone, not indicating aucune of his emotions.

"Dave, I think your English has gotten worse," says Rick, crossed by a lack of understanding. "Do you even realise you're speaking French at this point?" They haughtily hustle past a red building, GRANT AVE AUTO GARAGE REPAIR. Rick looks to his left, and sees a smaller road. He taps David on the shoulder and gestures palm-up towards it. David nods, and they turn, take the crosswalk. Rick looks up at another sign, this being street indicators. They've come onto Grant Avenue, as that auto shop foretold.

" _Yes,_ I am conscious of it," David abruptly says, returning to the loose, confused hostility that seems to come from frustration rather than spite. "I am incapable de parler correct English." Rick interpolates, and this proves David's own point. It's so wrong. David doesn't deserve any of this, he's innocent. All the outright injustices, on all sides, came from Rick, and he sees he's being punished accordingly. But Dave, what did he do? Fight with Roger? Get a divorce, once? Is this all Rick's fault?

"Je suis fatigué, tellement fatigué de tout ça. J'attachais les fils, emballais les cartons. Je dirais que j'ai vécu une belle vie. Maintenant, cela ressemble à une déclaration de mort, et cela peut être, mais non. La vie recommence dans quelques jours, une vie totalement différente. D'une manière ou d'une autre, j'arrive à le vivre avec des morts, et je vais donc chérir la nouvelle vie aussi. Mais la peur que je ressens ... Rick, aidez-moi s'il vous plaît."

"Are you doing this on purpose, or...?" Rick's a bit confused.

"Yes," admits David. "To vent."

"But why?" Rick returns, intrigued by this.

"I don't know."

The phone rings. Rick, who was now keeping it in his pocket, pulls it out and looks at the number.

"Who's this?" he asks David, showing him the number.

"Bob, Bob Erzin, you know."

"Oh. Should we-"

"-I would be inclined to answer."

A bit startled by David's harsh response, Rick flushedly picks up.

"David?" is the voice of Bob over the phone.

"Actually, it's Rick," is the second time Rick has to say that. He feels like a receptionist for David. The uphill plateaus out, but he can see a downhill, and the blue bay, in the distance.

"Oh- Rick! Is, um, is David with you?" Erzin sounds a bit taken aback. Were they talking about something in private?

"Yes," says Rick. "He's got a really sore throat right now, so he can't talk. I'm just answering for him"

"I see. Well, Roger once again called, and he says... you're somehow in San Francisco? Is that right, because, you know, it's obviously..."

"Yes, unfortunately. It's an understatement, because we have no money, no food, and no extra clothing. Dave just happened to have his phone with him. So, what exactly did you want to say?"

"Oh, wow. Yeah, I've already booked a flight to the San Francisco airport, you just have to hold out until... let's see... around eight-thirty P.M... I'm sorry, but it's the earliest I could've come. The plane's going to take off any minute now, if you might hear from the loud extraneous noises." There is a loud rumbling coming from Erzin's line- "I'll get there at seven-thirty, get a rental car, and drive twenty minutes to the city itself, where I assume you two are. Are you?"

"Yes, but not exactly sure," confirms Rick. "Do you happen to know the, er, really, you- you know, there's this street, and it's really small, there are lots of twists that go down it-"

"-You mean Lombard Street?" Erzin, as a North American, is clearly more educated on these things than Rick is.

"Yes, yes, that must be it. This call has to be brief, really, because David's phone hasn't got a lot of battery on it... do you have any other questions?"

"No, just keep that remaining percentage for when I get here. Don't want to go blindly looking around for you without any information on where you are!"

"Alright. Goodbye," finalises Rick. Erzin gives him a rudimentary farewell, and the line is silent.

Roger had taken great pains to organise something with Erzin, and it seems to be working out. He's still traumatised by Cannery Row. Whatever the fuck that place was, swarming with tourists like a nasty infestation of termites, it was sheer repulsiveness. Stores stocked with the same shit, like the airport making you claw out your eyes to make you purchase their products. And people buy into this, out of all things? Well, of course, it's the maritime formula, especially for a place like this. Baited by the beaches, hooked and reeled by consumerism. Wondering why you're penniless, you wanker? That. Reading a brief on the history of Cannery Row, it used to live up to its name, being that they would _can_ fish here. Now, it was more like being canned, where you'd just barely get through the crowd. He and Nick got pulled in from the sheer streams of people, and staggered out gasping for air on Prescott Avenue. Roger could swear, the two had gone _everywhere_ in Monterey. But here they were, on another street. Except this happened to be in Pacific Grove, proudly self-proclaiming itself as _Butterfly Town, U.S.A.._ One of their first impressions of this town happened to be, as of now, Second Chance Thrift Store, who displays some of its thrifty chairs outside. These range from patio, lawn, beach, diner, wicker, vintage, and... wheel? Wheelchairs for fifteen dollars each? _Don't count me in, anytime._ Roger shudders. Imagine what kind of person had the hubris to donate _those_... Do you not want it anymore because great old Dorothy passed away from bowel incontinence, and now the chair smells like the sewers? Joe bit the dust from the ciggies he chain-smoked to his last moment, and it's still got half his lung stuck onto the back of it, no matter how hard you scrubbed?

They had the lie of Nick's wallet, which had seemed to emanate some ungodly power, the plutocracy of this society proven, then. Unfortunately, they realised, it's all pounds, and as the American monetary system feels it's superior, it's likely nobody will receive it. Nick's card is tracked by whatever bank controls it, so they could be located by people they wouldn't want to. There's a real limit to all of this, no? So, Nick had the indignity of suggesting the idea of abducting mussels from the tidepools, proceeding to pry them open like a scavenger bird and just... No. Roger wanted to hit himself for even agreeing, and then wants to shoot himself because he followed through with the agreement and _enacted_ upon it. He wants to vomit, not physically sick, but just in the vein of the hypochondristic reflections on having eaten multiple unidentified bivalves' innards without thinking.

"Nick, why'd we do that?" he wonders aloud, with no context.

"Do what?" Nick gives him a confused look.

"Eat those... disgusting mussels," gags Roger. "What was the _constitutional thinking_ behind that?"

Nick shrugs. "Usually, shellfish happens to be edible. In times of desperation, anything is sustenance. If we hadn't, we'd be limp in the sand."

"That's base reasoning, couldn't it have been thought out more thoroughly?"

"No. Urgency is the matter; time is of the essence." His half-lidded gaze screams _Unnecessary conversation, Roger._

"You know what happens when you starve like that? It doesn't matter if humans can survive two weeks without food- they'd be rendered deathly weak after the first few hours, incapacitated by hunger," he continues. A momentary silence pauses the interaction.

As to exemplify Roger's observations, he asks, "What was even the point of that conversation?"

"I have no idea. There's literally nothing to do but walk. And, we have to wait until, what, eleven P.M. for Bob?" Roger scoffs. They continue walking straight, lucky for them all the people are congregated around the beach and the god-awful Cannery Row, so the long street is mostly desolated. This seems to be Foam Street.

"That's some nice water," throws out Nick. The fog, which had dissipated aeons ago, revealed a sparkling bay, which was really a depressing speck on the map of California, but nevertheless attractive. Here, they witness it again, scattered sails and tasteless motor yachts scattered in the calm ocean. After this momentary pause, they continue walking.

"I feel suddenly and notably dehydrated," says Roger, and Nick can only agree. They continue left on a fork, the right divergent leading to what looks like the freeway. So from that, they continue on their sidewalk, through a grove of Monterey cypresses (information obtained from eavesdropping on a tour guide) and emerging next to a marina. The salty scent is prevalent, the wind blowing in their faces. It seems that it has picked up all of a sudden, leading to rougher waters than before. The sailboats docked are made anxious, and rock like animals pacing in their cages.

"Do you remember what you were doing on the twentieth of October, nineteen-eighty-eight?" Roger wonders, eye also caught by a gathering of seagulls on a small group of rocks.

"No... but the twentieth of October, nineteen eighty-seven, yes," responds Nick, the seagulls preening themselves against the water that was becoming ever more violent. "We were playing at somewhere in Maryland, the... Capitol Centre, I think." The seagulls were a fleeting moment, and though they're directly next to the water, it feels like everything's drying up...

~2.30 P.M.

They kick down the door to the East Village, whatever this place is, driven by thirst and madness... not really. Instead, it's a lazy and sheltered afternoon inside this cafe. Smells of cinnamon, wood, and coffee mingle with one another. The concrete floors are polished immaculately, the Burning Man pictures hung on the wall hung in their stolid black frames. Large, rough, and varying brick makes the wall, the tables a rugged half-finished wood, industrial metal chairs in a modern style, and coveted leather recliners. People sip their espresso, Earl Grey, jasmine, Blue Moon, invested in college studies, graphic design, product managing, or browsing of a read they nabbed from Capitol Books. Pecan pie, lemon bars, blueberry muffins, a slice of choc cake, the atmosphere is relaxed... this is a lounge, after all. The cashier is backlit by the neon signs of beer logos, feeling a certain air of authority in all this quietude. So when two men sidle in, she knows how to serve them.

"Excuse me, do you have water?" the notably tall one asks. Cool, it's a British guy. He wears a traumatized look on his face. It's just her assumptions, though, but what if he got humped by a sea lion, or chased by a gang of California King Crabs? She could form a coalition with the number of people she'd seen freshly escaped from the wrath of Monterey- some kid idiot sticking his hand in an enormous sea anemone, nearly tore the cnidarian off its anchor trying to get it out. The appendage was paralyzed. And the seagulls- don't even get her started with that. Heerman's, Herring, Ring-Billed, it doesn't matter, they _will_ get you.

"Yes, sir," she responds. "Would you like some?" Jazz plays over the vinyl. They're running _Miles In the Sky,_ obviously by Miles Davis, from end to end. They've just started on the first track, _Stuff_. She's had a tough fight with the other staff, she was in the mood for the Eagles, but _Devon_ wanted JAZZ. That's a mood for the evening, DEVON, jazz is sacred. But here she was, at... 2:33 P.M., hearing Miles Davis get disrespected.

He nods harshly. That's also her guess, it may just be normal mannerisms. "And for you, too?" she asks the other, who gives a positive answer. So, she goes about her regular routine of getting water- a plastic cup is drawn from the stack, another, give it ice from the ice dispenser, turn on the tap and fill. Give it a lid, and voila, done. The prose of this groove to the rhythms of the harsh, attractive trumpet warring with the soprano sax and electric piano. But, it shouldn't be thrown around like that!

"Here are your waters," she serves them. They expedite the process of getting out by significant time figures, and this two-minute procedure is officially over. She internally shrugs, ready to serve the next hippie ginger-bearded dude with a red beanie, who comes in at 2:40 sharp-

~5:45 P.M. CST

Bob's flying over... what, now? Somewhere in the west, he can already tell by the plains. It's just bare mountain and dry prairie on a- huh, Wyoming, afternoon. But, checking the map, it looks like the plane's crossing over into Colorado. Any minute now. So, as Bob crosses another state border, and gets closer to Northern California, he can only wonder: What exactly is he going to do? He should've at least gotten more verification, thought this out more. Of course, it is David's number, but Bob's doubt is stockpiling itself. As he's excited by this prospect, the really _unrealistic_ reality of the situation begins to realize, and yeah, Bob's can't suspend his disbelief for this. But, he fell for it. He booked a ticket from JFK to SFO, packed his bags, boarded the plane, and now he's over halfway across the country. For nothing? No... Bob scoffs to himself. How unobservant would he have to be to do that? But still...

~4:45 P.M., PST

They had basically compromised themselves by asking random people for spare change. As there's no free, convenient food source in this city, and you can't necessarily beat starvation, even going backwards like they are. So, as of current, Rick and David are dejectedly gnawing on a tough baguette they had split, that had been purchased for $3.17 from Acme Bread, Co. (requiring two hours' worth of technical panhandling between five donors, and more than that were asked), slinking out of the Ferry Building. They're receiving amused looks as David mumbles in half-French about things that _aren't_ related to the bread. Some people must think, 'O, the irony of a French tourist commentating about French bread from America'. That's obviously not the case, they'd know if they were walking next to him, or knew the context. Admittedly, Rick, stationed right next to " _dis French guy"_ , is still struggling to get through his thick accent (the crowd is noisy), and even David himself can barely comprehend what he's heard himself spit out, if not for the certainty of thoughts that were turned into words.

Rick and David had actually gone to Coit Tower, when they took another left on Grant Avenue, and were led up a spiralling road. Coming across a parking lot, the tower, and a medium amount of tourists, they considered getting out immediately. However, there was a good view for figuring out where they were, and where'd they go. Keeping themselves unassuming and vague, heads down in the small crowd, they were able to make it to a clearance between the trees. They looked at the main cluster of skyscrapers that make up San Francisco's skyline. The most notable one would be the futurist Transamerica Pyramid, in the same vein as the Space Needle in Seattle.

When they had visited San Francisco sometime in late 1972, Rick can remember the exclamations around the newly finished building. They had heard about locals complaining about it, but when the four saw it on the skyline, Roger said something along the lines of, "This is it, future's here, boys!", and sharply, broadly gestured to the building. They had a good laugh, and Dave said something in French, then, "You architecture snobs leave me out of this."

They got strange looks from people walking down the long avenue of shoddy clubs, the four blazed or half-drunk, something like that. Even though looking back on that, it was an embarrassing moment, Rick suddenly felt lonely, even with David. There suddenly is procured a sense of isolation, as they stand in the direct midst of a crowd, in the Ferry Building. In the open storefront of Acme Bread, Co., which smells like... bread.

"Rick. We shouldn't be in here," David says. His French may be relegated to his accent, but he's incredibly hard to understand in the crowd.

"Oh, yeah- er, that's true," Rick says. "Wait a minute, is that-?" He shuffles a little closer to the pricing board of the goods. "Dave, they've got, look, yard-long baguettes for three-thirty?"

"This universe is cruel," mutters David. It's a bargain, a sufficient amount of bread for an inexpensive price. They had resorted to technical panhandling, as they were penniless. So, they'd tap people on the shoulder, ask, "Hey, do you have a spare quarter?". Either the person would say, "No, fuck off," or something (that only happened once), or they'd fish out a quarter. So, they had... what, four... seventeen in change? It was at the compromise that someone might recognise them, but they've agreed that it's just irrational to do that. Who's going to recognise an eighties version of half of a rock band that was popular in the _seventies_ , anyway? And, who relied on anonymity? And one of which is dead?

So they shook it off, and now they're fine... maybe.

"Dave, you talk," Rick whispers to him, and so he shrugs. It is a good idea, being that he could come off as an international tourist. They merge with the... empty line, and are immediately face-to-face with the cashier.

"Excuse me, could I get a baguette?" asks David, leaning on the counter.

"Yes," says the cashier, who goes back to where another employee is, and David swears he hears snickering. Does this have to happen _every_ time? He traces as they take out a baguette from the display, put it in a bag with ACME on it, and

"It's some... French guys, walking in and asking for a baguette!" howls the cashier, a few minutes later. Everyone is laughing. "From America! Are they judging us now?"

The baker adds some more flour t into his dough. "God, that was hilarious. I gotta tell you, the world- the world is full of stupid idiots like us. Laughing at a French and his woman, it's- it's not-" he nearly wheezes into the KitchenAid, but whiplashes himself to protect it from contamination. "Real nice eyelashes, that guy."

"Longest I've seen on anyone," swears the custodian. "Like, this girl I knew once, she had loads of makeup- but even with those extensions from CVS _and_ mascara, I- I can't..."

"You should've taken a picture," sighs the distributor. "You remember what he looked like?"

"Oh, yea. He looked like a fuckin' cat!" expressively exclaims the cashier. "If you squint, you could see, like-"

"Hey! I know a guy that looks like a cat," says the distributor, pulling out her phone, inserting some credentials and stuff in between hushed chatter. She then goes to Google, searches up something, and brandishes it to them.

"Yea! He kinda looks like that," says the cashier. "But... but- _Exactly like that_." He notices a more recent photo; the kitty is on the left of two other guys, one who looks like the French dude. "And the other guy looked like that."

"Really? You've got to be shitting me," smirks the distributor. "This guy's dead, and this is a picture from 1987."

"But I swear, Carly! Like, everythin'! Those lashes, man!" The custodian vigorously nods in agreement. "What d'ya think? A conspiracy?"

"Yeaaaa," snarls the cashier.

"Are you guys drunk?" squints the distributor.

"Nope," lazily insists the custodian. "Just- just in, uh, _high spirits_! Haw.... Don't report us, Carly, begging ya."

The distributor clears her throat. "I won't, but you guys need to calm down."

They're gnawing on the tough baguette they split, David mumbling incoherently in French (not that Rick could understand it in the first place). This provides contextual cover, at least. They blend in with the crowd, edging their way along the wide sidewalk. Across the street is a long row of palm trees, which separate the road from modestly-sized buildings, brick, steel, and glass. Their walk frames the bay, which is a plain and unassuming blue, and to their right is the Bay Bridge. Rick peers across the water, and sees Oakland. Having gone everywhere, he's familiar with places they've gone to multiple times on tour, though they never had time to develop an emotional context. There wasn't much permanence in that way, and Rick didn't really care about America. It was an unfeeling, unreal place- just another foreign country. But the trapped feeling that's consuming Rick is letting San Francisco begin to wrap its vines around his feet. He knows nothing about it, but he's getting a feel for it- it's varied, like all cities with modern historical context, its professionalism and business, and the dilapidated parts... The homeless staring dejectedly up at Rick, asking for money, not knowing he's in the exact same situation. Only for Rick, it may just be temporary.

He's not sure what to make out of the hippie scene/stereotype. That's a definite relic; he has yet to walk down Haight-Ashbury to see the sentimentalist peace-and-love thing down there. He does remember London; 1967. Syd was his main connector to all of that, Rick himself was not as invested in it. But, everyone liked Syd, and Syd was the leader. You follow the leader, of course, and so they followed in wearing ridiculous clothes, taking ridiculous stuff, doing ridiculous things ( _Ahem,_ See Emily Play promotional video)... the like. It was a very interesting time, feeling like society was going to radically change, even if you weren't directly contributing. You're just the keyboardist to one of its bands, one band of many that made up this scene.

Here, there's a catalogue of turquoise juniper and long-haired grasses, which splits them from the road and narrows the path by half.

"Rick, look," David's pointing at a massive sculpture of a bow, Kraft-yellow, and an arrow stuck through it, saturated with a red feather fletching. It's designed to appear half-buried in the plants, the arrowhead apparently stuck in the ground.

There are some scattered bicyclists and loners, sitting on the concrete infrastructure presumably supporting the bow.

"That's quite interesting," muses Rick. Failing to generate a better conversation than that, they fall back into silence. _Kraw. Kraw. Kraw_. A pair of ravens vocalise overhead, dark spots in the sky circling like vultures. There's fog creeping across the bay. After this morning's fog, no thank you. But there it rolls over the water, thick and misty. The ravens land on a palm tree adjacent to them, preening one another. There's something sinister going on here. Rick looks down... he doesn't want to be faced with creeping insinuations. Small, thin leaves in brown and yellow skittle in the wind coming from behind, as if they're running away from something. Rick looks over his shoulder. There are a few cars, a few people. Rick looks back down at the ground, and is met with a blue glint. He stops. It's a butterfly, but isn't flying for whatever reason. As unnerved as he is, he's still taking his time to pick it up. Per his suggestion, it crawls on his finger, but it's likely already dead- its wings are torn. With the insect, he catches up to David. They're under the shade of another olive tree; for whatever reason, they seem to be a popular plant here. Rick has seen them up and down nearly every street in this city, haunting him with memories of '84 and similar times. It's this small park here... on the Embarcadero, as that sign indicates.

"What do you think of looking at the water for a few minutes?" suggests David. "We haven't stopped nearly all day." Well, yes, that was true, as Rick felt tired out of his mind, but the walking wasn't exactly strenuous, it just slowly whittled away at one's energy. The butterfly seems to be withering, it's gotten stiffer.

Rick nods. "Yes, I think so." So, instead of continuing straight, they deviate left, this fork separated by a grove of youngish miscellaneous trees. It feels so strange, just casually wandering into the midst of other people. Their auras feel almost poisonous, being that Rick is so used to just avoiding them. He sticks to David, nervous. The two awkwardly lean on a railing, looking out in finer detail towards the east. It's five now, and the fact that the day is dying is becoming apparent. The sun has drooped from midday, the sky slowly increasing in warm colour, and the temperature is dropping. And Rick's suspicion is rising, for no apparent reason. The butterfly is nearly dead, and Dave just seems to notice it.

"Where'd you find that?" he glances at the creature passively, however attractive its jewel-like sheen is.

"It was on the ground," Rick replies. "I didn't want it to get stepped on, you know, and it was predisposed to dying."

David shrugs and nods. Rick glances over at the fog, premonition slithering around him. _What is it?_

The guy was just, you know, taking stock images for Getty (he gets some pretty good cash out of it, didn't go to photography school for nothing), and today he happened to be in the San Francisco Bay Area region. Considering he was just in Vietnam, it's a nice change of scenery from language barriers and miscommunications and customs confusion, to... ah, home, sweet home. America, anyway, he lives in Trenton, New Jersey. So, he was wearing his favorite shirt, that of course of his favorite band, Pink Floyd. Anyway, he was pointing his camera at the Bay Bridge. Do you know how dynamic the perspective shots of these kinds of suspension bridges are? Ugh, he loves taking pictures of bridges almost as much as he loves listening to Pink Floyd. Vietnam just happened to have the Cau Van/Golden Bridge, which was awesome, because it was designed to look as if two giant stone hands were supporting it. And, the Dragon Bridge in Da Nang, that was stunning- the gold-painted _rồng_ that squiggled up and down the middle of it breathed mist. He's taken a few pictures of this massive grey-white bridge, and there were some nice shots with deeply contrasting ravens. And then... what was that? It's was a few yards away, tugging at the corner of his eye. He finally looked, and near drop-dead fainted. What the _hell_ did he just see? He looks again. It's two people, but not just any people. These two guys here, they look like... Richard Wright and David Gilmour?! But... Wright is dead, and Gilmour's in his seventies...

But there's no other explanation! Is he going crazy? Unless we live in a matrix, or something like that. He whips his phone out of his pocket- he feels bad, he's filming here. But proof! Sheer proof about a glitch in the matrix! Once done and satisfied he puts it away before they notice, and goes back to camera business. _No one_ would believe it, so what? It's there! Seeing _is_ believing.

~8 P.M. PST

"Well," says Bob, over the phone. "Where are you guys?"

"It seems," says Rick, "I'm not exactly clarified on how we ended up here, but..." he looks up at the lamppost on the street corner, which has an Eastern dragon coiled around it, "...Chinatown."

"Do you know where exactly?" inquires Erzin.

"Grant Avenue," replies Rick. Not to be confused with the Grant Avenue they'd been to quite a few hours ago; it's just common, maybe.

"Really? Well, I'm driving off right now, so, very specifically," insists Bob.

"We're right next to... 'Bow Hon Seafood Restaurant'," Rick reads off the illuminated sign. "Should we just wait here?"

"I guess," says Bob.

那个女人和她的女儿正走在街上。通常，这会令人担忧地迟到，但这是女孩的生日。

那个女人告诉她：“你可以去任何地方。”因此，她的女儿正在寻找合适的食物。她真的很喜欢鸭子，所以当她找到直接做广告的餐馆时，她就去了。但是，附近有两名西方人在外面闲逛，这使女人有点紧张。突然，女儿的眼睛里闪烁着奇怪的光芒，她开始跳来跳去，大声说：“小猫！小猫！”老实说，其中一个在昏暗的灯光下看起来像只猫。但是，这名妇女并没有浪费时间撤回女儿，并匆忙用英语道歉。她把她拉进餐厅，嘶嘶地讲话。

“你不应该和陌生人说话！”她告诉女儿。

“但是那是一只小猫！”坚持那个女孩。

“那不是猫，那是男人。记住下次。”

David arches an eyebrow. "What was that?"

"No idea," sighs Rick. "Uh, sorry about that, Bob, what?"

"Oh- uh, I'll be coming around in a red Toyota, yeah... just wait."

"Alright," says Rick. "So... should I hang up?"

"Yes," says Bob, but he's the one to end the call. The line is silent now.

Bob drives out into the night. So, he's here, off the plane, onto the 101 in California. What now, again? This is one of the most immediate travels he's ever taken. Yes, he was careless, he realises that now, and he's gullible. Pink Floyd was a great band to work with; the various times over which he co-produced, he was always amazed by a new facet in each album. And to hear this wild new thing over the phone, well, it was interesting. Why not? He's more than likely wasting his time. Bob turns on the radio, trying to fill the silence. Half-expecting it to be Pink Floyd, he braces for it- yet does not hear that. He's surprised at what it is: he's not sure, but... he checks the station. This is a local station, isn't it? Who's that? Apparently, they've got a handful of great music coming along with them. It's this... blues, greens, red piece? Spanish? Eastern? Jazz? Brian Eno? It's _something_ , that's what, and Bob's interest is piqued. He doesn't have much time to think about it, though, there are obviously other matters to attend to...

...5/4 time signature, alternating from Fmaj to Bm every four measures; four measures alternating to three every two cycles- interesting rhythms, but nevermind... Bob's trying to arrange something. So, how and where? How being how to slip Floyd back into the fold? Where, being... where would they do that? Not _here_ , that's for sure.

_But it's the last place anyone would expect them... Floyd on the West Coast? Ha, tickle me- uh, pink._ The drive is accompanied by the song, cars' lights illuminating the dark highway, a parking lot building one of the many city beacons. And it doesn't take long to see a green sign, which says SOUTH SAN FRANCISCO- City Limit, elevation 64 and population... too many numbers to read. There's a lot of things Bob can't see; the cell towers, the tangles of overpasses, the future. Highway lights streak past, harshly illuminating the dark and lonely roads, and Bob's anticipation begins to build. It may be in a negative connotation... this isn't anxiety, is it? It's just... so overwhelming, now that he thinks about it. He's been running like a broken record, thinking the same thoughts over and over again. He's going down, there's a hill there, merely a shape in a starry sky. Not that it's going to be starry for much longer, San Francisco's ubiquitous fog is swirling around down there. It's a night-lightening haze, and Bob's heading directly into it.

The curious song ends, and in comes a new one, foreboding, descending acoustic sweeping across an imaginary stage.

_'My death waits, like an old roué,'_ the radio begins quavering. Bob's heard this somewhere. 

_'So confident... I'll go his way,'_ That voice... it's familiar.

_The strings ripple underneath the plectrum, tightly held in hand. He feels the strings digging into his fingers, the makeup on his face. Time? October 20th, 1972. Place? Santa Monica Auditorium, Santa Monica, California. He takes in a deep breath, continues in his reedy voice;_

_"Whistle to him, and the passing time..." This one's for you, Brel. You wrote it, anyway._

_"My death waits like, a Bible truth," It's inevitable. Everyone has to die at least once, time goes on, we all fade away, or we all change into something else. He shines under the hot stage lights in a leather jacket. Everything's in detail, in colour, vivid red hair, the vibrations that ricochet, the microphone blowing his breath back to him... but it's fleeting. Nobody will ever be able to capture it in a likeness._

_"At the funeral... of my youth."_

_Soon, this will all be over, even though it's the middle of the concert. He'll be in yet another hotel, yet another train, yet another city... and yet another plane, if 1976 ever does roll around and he doesn't die in a plane crash. What will he be doing then? What about 1982, still up in space?_

_"We drank for that, and the passing time..."_

_Is he doomed to do this forever, will his career die out by then? Or 1992, will he be sad and grey already, feeding off his old profits like a leech? Or still trying?_

_"My death waits... like a witch at night!" he proclaims melodramatically to the audience. Brel's lyrics are moving, aren't they? Moving enough to make David sing like he is... a dying dog._

_2002\. 2002, how 'bout that? I don't ever want to stop working, don't feel like that anytime soon. It's not just me in the future, either, everyone and everything. Who'll be dead by then? Will I? 2012? Now, something's had to slow down by then, it would be impossible for it not to. 2022, fifty years from now? Dead, probably, the way it's going now... Getting drunk every night with the Spiders isn't helping with that._

_"As surely, as our love is bright." The audience is silent, staring at him, maybe foreboding. Perhaps they know._

_"Let's not think of that," he tells them, "Or the passing time..."_

_It's after the fact of the swarming fans, after the fact the show has ended, that the band and engineers and technicians and roadies have packed up and are ready to go, that he finds something on the smooth concrete. What's this? It's a photograph. David bends down, picks it up, and looks. It's a good-quality photograph, a colour picture of a punk in blue with long hair, knowingly looking into the camera._

_You know something I don't? Doesn't that look... a bit familiar to you, David? And then it takes him two seconds to realise who:_

_That's me._

_That's me?_

_I'm older... don't look any wiser._

_He flips it over, it must say something._

**_DAVID BOWIE, 1999._ **

_He can barely remember how he's going to look like as it disappears in his fingertips._

The singing of Bowie continues down the drive. 

_My death waits there among the flowers. Where the blackest shadow, blackest shadow cowers. Let's pick lilacs for the passing time..._

The light shuts out for a split second as another overpass flashes by, and flood back in. A few minutes pass, and he sees the San Francisco Bay, and the fog that accompanies it. It's a huge, fast-moving wall. This only gets Bob closer. What's with this? Is he crazy? Even _that's_ an uncertainty... insane people usually can't tell they're insane. He goes further, through a somewhat forested area, then immediately recognizes the fact he's in the city. Houses are densely packed around company buildings and warehouses. The freeway ascends above all these, then when it touches down it transforms into the Interstate 280, stays left. Soon, he sees 'familiar' street names on the green signs like Cesar Chavez... only in the context that he's been here a few times. It's pretty empty at this time, rush hour here having expired, revealing the thing that it really is- a desolate stretch of highway. Bob makes a curve around a hill, and is finally exposed to the skyline, albeit it looks far off. This changes into more overpasses, which diverge together, like ribbons in a knot. Below, it flattens out, and San Francisco beckons him closer. Billboards galore, the newest version of the iPhone, Coca-Cola's permanent light display, marijuana... you name it. Bob takes one look at the Salesforce Tower, knows he's in this for good, and plunges down into the exit. He takes a left, definitely in the main part of S.F.. The street's buildings seem to lean over, maybe looking at him and knowing what he's about to do. Their dead-lit Victorian and modern faces regard him with disdain; _Ugh, a New Yorker. Get that filthy rat off the streets._ Bob winds down past Union Square into a narrower avenue, and now he has to head straight.

_What am I going to get out of all of this, if it is real?_

_You're doing this out of the goodwill of your heart, Robert. Get on with it._ A streetlight momentarily shows a web of cables above- likely for the trolleys. Bob couldn't honestly care less about the luxury stuff they were trying to sell at the currently closed stores... _leave me alone._ He drives into this tunnel, which painted on its walls, yellow background in black text: UNION SQUARE and some Chinese symbol he can't read. As he's driving through, he realizes: _Oh. I'm that close to THEM already._ Emerging on the other side, things have definitely changed. Cheap boards, banners, and awnings announce the businesses' names, which gives the place a kind of worn-out feel, but it's better than the high-polish Louis Vuittons and Forever 21s back there. The street is alternately lit by floodlights and copper-green streetlights, with little dragons on them. He takes a left and... Oh! The Transamerica Pyramid, right there, maybe 300 metres away. He didn't realize how close Chinatown and the financial centre were together. The end of the street, and another left. Suddenly, a spike of adrenaline goes through him, his thoughts and heart racing. It's happening here, right here, right now. He's either going to find nobody on a streetcorner in front of some random Chinese place, then he'll go in there, order something, and cry in the meanwhile, or... _that_.

He feels dizzyingly sick as he takes a third left, onto Washington Street. This is where it is. He slows down significantly, and rolls by a respectable pagoda. Should he do this? Does he want to find out?

_But whatever lies behind the door_

Bob finds himself reading all the signs. He tries to breathe slowly, evenly, but either prospect is too soul-crushing. Ellison Enterprises Corp., apparently they sell natural products, herbs, 'ginsengs', teas... He looks in the rear-view mirror. He's not slowing anybody down, so he doesn't have to go any faster. 

_There is nothing much to do_

He's too jittery to distract himself anymore, nor pick up the pace. He takes it a metre at a time, and he finds himself at another intersection. Everything stops. It hangs in the balance.

_You can go back now, or turn left._ The steering wheel inclines, the tires roll. It's too late. Bob slowly, torturously turns onto Grant Avenue, and is a knife stabs and twists in his heart- there's the glowing box light sign- BOW HON, SEAFOOD RESTAURANT. He thinks he sees two figures from where he's at, but he can't tell.

_Angel or devil, I don't care_

He drives up, the light shimmering on the Toyota's red paint job. He's looking down at the wheel, struggling to breathe, trying to come with the terms that he had been in New York just a few hours ago; and now was _here_ , with _some people_. He draws in a long, unsteady breath, closes his eyes, and looks up.

_For in front of that door, there is you_

~9 P.M. PST

"I'm not going to fall asleep fast enough," grumbles Roger, who by now has dark circles under his eyes. The two, who have been roaming around Monterey all day, have come under the cover of darkness to roost in the courtyard of East Village. It's still going to be another hour and a half before Erzin arrives here. Roger just wants to sleep already. He keeps on dozing off, but Nick, on the other hand, is fully alert, and feels he is obligated to continuously snap Roger awake. It's getting rather irritating.

"Can't I just afford _two..._ ten minutes of sleep?" he halfheartedly snaps. Nick shakes his head. 

"Roger, there's no telling what happens while or because we fall asleep," he sighs, as if it was obvious.

"Exactly what, then?" Roger scoffs, already closing his eyes again.

"Have you ever stopped to think how all this happens? We have to be asleep for all those bizarre things to occur. Want to go another five years back? Sleep. Want to be thrown halfway across the world again? Sleep, of course," supplies Nick, though it's a dispassioned neutral tone.

"Eh, probably when we both happen to," Roger mutters, not listening much by now. The sweet relief of sleep, though it's not very comfortable, only fifteen Celsius. Nick, once again, sticks out a foot and drags a spare chair towards him, metal against cobblestone concrete, making an awfully loud and unpleasant noise.

Roger exasperatedly sighs, and takes his head out of hand. "What exactly are we going to do for two hours?" Nick shrugs, and stares at the suspicious berry in his hand (they've been living off those instead of shellfish). 

"You tell me," he replies. "You clearly know America better."

"Well, not here!" Roger gestures towards 'here'. "I live, or lived, on the east coast! I barely have the ability to introspect in and about this place, and nevermind the fact that California is _not_ New York, at ALL." He maybe does find himself introspecting, as he is doing now, but in eastern New York, it's more intimate than trying to fix a dove's wing. Every smell, every feeling, every place and types of people are familiar. This is alien, stiffer than a dead pigeon. There isn't any kind of memory or nostalgia to this place (except, of course, the Monterey Pop and/or Jazz Festival), and it seems to resent him.

"Roger, I thought you were the kind of person to stay up all night," says Nick. "And, you're forgetting something: this isn't 1988, we're still... "us" (air quotes), so there's no need to go trite over the things that happened then."

Nick knows everyone's in a bad situation right now, himself included, especially because they had, or somehow _still_ have, a philosophy that is being aggressively confronted. This philosophy just happens to be, _If there's a problem, ignore it._ Rick's getting a divorce? Ignore it. All our equipment was just stolen? Ignore it. Syd's gone loopy? Ignore it. The band's falling apart because we got rich and famous, and nobody's motivated to play anymore? Ignore. It. Roger's gone off the deep end with propaganda, and ranting about us 'capitalists pigs'? Ignore. It.

_Come on, Nick, you're harbouring resentment, after all these years of good terms? Don't let the year affect your brain._ He hopes he's self-aware enough to keep tabs and remain consistent. 

Roger sighs. "Well," he says. "I'm not getting any older anytime soon, so agreed: it's unreasonable to argue." He clearly looks like he wants to sleep, however, blinking for extended amounts of time, and looking dead in the floodlight flickering through the willow. There was no mistaking it, though; Roger's still astringent as always. 

Roger doesn't seem to be different from what he was doing eighteen days ago, even in a malignant combination of circumstances such as these, he's not cracking. But he's been whittled, there may be a point he comes across- Nick might just have to patiently wait until... nineteen-seventy-something-

_Get a GRIP, Nicholas. Leave him to his own vices._

It's once again quiet. It's difficult to conversate with someone you haven't met in a while, much less yourself. And what's that in the opposing streetlight, the enemy of the floodlight? It's milky, dense, like cataracts- the fog, crawling in again. A cool rush of wind, and nothing remains in sight but the light and Roger- who has not only closed his eyes, but folded his arms on the table and buried his head in them, brown hair lost in the mists. Well. They're supposed to wait here for another hour-plus. Nick gives up.

The photographer is feeling particularly feverish right now. It's unfortunate- how can you get a fever this fast? So, he's in his hotel room, reviewing his pictures of the Bay Bridge, and... the other thing. He's not going to show it to anyone yet, he needs to find the two. 

He coughs. This, too? The photographer's down with something, isn't he? The lights suddenly look brighter, harsher. The Chinese takeout isn't tasting too great, either. Maybe it's that, but sickness doesn't come that fast. He tries to remember what he ate and drank earlier... Cappuccino, cantaloupe, croissant, and now Chinese... hey, wait a minute, they alliterate. Maybe that's it- a word sickness. Too much C. But in all seriousness, where? Maybe he caught it from somewhere in the airport, or Vietnam. They've got mosquitoes there, notably the Asian Tiger Mosquito, which can spread diseases... No thank you. 

The photographer needs to sneeze, and therefore sneezes into his white sleeve. Recoiling, he looks- a spray of red. He's only a little worried; he has frequent nosebleeds, the doc told him that he had especially delicate sinus vessels. So, he wipes off the bloody snot, and gets back to work. He uploads the bridge pictures as digital files on his computer, examines them for angular accuracy. How can this shot be optimized? Should he go back tomorrow and takes pictures? Oh- that one's unflattering. How did he not notice and adjust the darkness on that? It would've been a great picture... Some of these are really bright, too high contrast... the screen hurts his eyes, the light hurts his eyes, so he rubs them. It's not resolved, just worse. He's sick, he should go lie down for a few minutes. He closes the computer. As he stands up, he feels unbalanced, unnerved. _It's okay... just your immune system running its course. It's alright, it's fine. Everything's fine._ He totters over to the lamp on the nightstand and switches it off, then flops down on the bed. As an over-hygienic person, this would normally be considered an atrocity, but for now, he's... just so damn ill. He needs sleep.

I take a look around. It's a place we went to earlier, the Lover's Point. But I'm here without Nick, without any people around, just the salty waves and mats of kelp floating around. Not even a seagull here, but that's fine. I'm fine. The sand is coarse, more like gravel, and it crunches loudly. So... what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?

"Hello?" I ask, to, of course, nobody's response. In terms of living beings, it's dead silent. I turn to my right. It's immaculately preserved, buildings, cars, the like, but no activity. I kick the sand and watch it spray over more sand. A grove of cypresses watches over the point itself. Who is what?

Who is that? A guy with a Nikon, of course, who is looking up, and is going to fall off the cliff.

"You wanker!" I yell at him. "You'll fall off the cliff!"

He notices, but it's already too late. I take off like the flight of a Luzon bleeding-heart, and I arrive faster than he hits the ground, watching as he falls in slow motion, as the camera strap glides off his neck and goes down with him. He hits the ground, blood spattering the rocks impaling his head. To add insult to injury, the camera hits him in his dead face.

"I'm totally alive," he says, and digs something out of his pocket. "Here's proof." It's a stainless-steel fork, handle ribbed with rectangular ceramic inlays that go from red to purple in a rainbow fashion.

"What's it for?" I have to ask, because I have no clue as to what a fork is. Yea, what's a fork? Can somebody tell me?

"It's proof. Take it, and wield truth," says the camera guy, who extends his three arms (now scaled with them scaly budgerigar feet like tassels on a curtain), all wielding the same exact fork split across space-time. I oblige, and now I have a fork. Whatever that is.

"You know what this reminds me of?" I ask, rhetorically. 

"I'm dead, I can't tell," says the photographer, and so he's eaten by brittle starfish. 'Cause he's a corpse, you know. Real gloomy. 

"The Transamerica Pyramid!" I exclaim, and I'm suddenly-

-Awake. Nick let him sleep far in enough to have a dream? 

"What time is it?" He mumbles to Nick, and looks up. It's all foggy again, and Nick is ominously half-lit.

"Around nine-thirty P.M., I think," says Nick. He looks down at something on the table. "Where'd you find that?" 

A blurry silver gleam between Roger's fingers. He follows it sharply.

"Wot," he says. The Transamerica gay fork. It's here, right here, right now. He looks up at Nick, and shrugs. _What the fuck is the meaning of this?_ Roger mentally interrogates the fork, who has a sinister undertone to it. _What do you want with me, you degenerate piece of flatware? Come on, spit it out._

As expected, the fork says nil. 

"Still an hour," Roger continues, completely waving off the fact he's questioning his own sanity. This has to be a dream. But it feels all too real...

It's been a long approximate of two hours, with what in your backseat feels like having a kilogram of cocaine or dangerous explosives. That's just how illegal it feels. Having communicated with Roger already, Bob knows where they are, and is preparing himself for another pick-up- this time, something like uranium or an illegally poached animal. Roger isn't really on great terms with Bob, being that he resents the Endless River (which Bob co-produced). He can't really bring himself to speak, despite his burning question of why David's wearing a thick French accent, or just _how_ Richard is alive, or the other matter-of-fact, which shouldn't really be a fact at all. There aren't many cars or people out; must be congregated around campfires on the beach. Apparently, that's a popular pastime here, as demonstrated by the sheer amount Bob noticed on the central California coast. He's only a few dozen metres from this place, and yet again, apprehension and anticipation pick up. _Oh boy, what am I getting myself into?_ Something, that's what. He's not sure if he's in the right place, but then sees this plaza, and the maps indicate that it's _there._ So, once again, he nervously pulls up, shifts the gear to a full stop, turns the keys and retracts them, unbuckles his seatbelt, unlocks the door, (Bob pauses to breathe) opens the door, and awkwardly stumbles out. Adjusting his glasses and reorienting himself, the producer braces himself. The two members of Pink Floyd in his car follow suit, and the two entities in the courtyard seem to notice. One stands up, terrifyingly tall, like a wraith in all this fog, and makes a beeline for him. Bob feels his knees melt... he knows exactly who it is, and honestly feels like dying.

_Waters._

Well, Erzin can't go anywhere, so he's just left there, slightly cowering. _Pull it together, Bob._ It can't tell in all of this fog just yet, but its long stride gets him right there and up-front. So, now it can, but by this time, Bob has straightened himself out. It snaps his neck down, shadows of eyes showing no emotion.

"Hello, Bob," says the voice, slowly enunciating like it's going to tear him to pieces.

"...Hello... _Roger_..." says Bob. Why is he so scared? 

The tense moment is loosened, then tightened, with Dave and Rick, who begin threading in greetings. 

Nick's still at the table in the corner, unsure as what to do. _Come on! It's Dave, Rick, and Erzin... you can afford some greeting._ The four over there are standing in an oblong cultist shape around the front of the car, staring each other down in a bizarre silence. _This again?_ Nick sighs and rolls his eyes, getting up from the table. He walks over, the gathering's faces only made visible in the last few feet. He can't help but smile at Rick, who catches his eye, and raises his eyebrows in acknowledgement. The others don't seem to notice, locked in each others' refuting gazes. Nick goes around Roger, and allows Rick to break away. They embrace. It's strange, hugging a supposedly dead man, a mere memory. They part, and that's when the others notice; _Are we supposed to do that?_ Roger and David exchange prickly looks, Nick greets Bob, and Roger greets Rick, more formally so to Bob and David.

"So, Bob," sighs Roger. "What's your plan?"


	10. Lemongrass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I understand that this chapter doesn't propel the plot too much, but I had to split it in half. There's going to be the next chapter coming fast, then.  
> Points of this chapter:  
> A. Nick gets skinny again but no one directly addresses it and it's weird   
> B. Roger comes across Roger  
> C. I think this chapter has deteriorated in quality due to the fact that it's split in half  
> D. Okay, this chapter sucks  
> E. Just post Sage already, blagtiwitenois  
> F. Sage is going to be so much better, don't worry

# Arts - The New York Times

## Where is Pink Floyd? (An Abridged Version)

A bizarre missing persons case has come up on an unusual and unlikely subject- Pink Floyd, the didactic seventies band known for their humanitarian and political endeavors in music. This, coincidentally, involves all three living members, guitarist David Gilmour, and ex-bassist and lyricist Roger Waters, who are known to be estranged from each other, and drummer Nick Mason.

It is unknown at what exact time they disappeared, but on the date of October the fourteenth, what was described as a particularly 'ominous' message by several people appeared on Waters' social media. This was a far cry from his usual political discourse and/or musical promotions: "A note from Roger: I am taking a break from everything for a while. Please do not attempt to contact me." Waters, who was working on the This Is Not A Drill Tour (which was delayed by the scare of the Coronavirus epidemic that briefly broke into the U.S. and Europe last spring), was said by collaborators to be 'in full enthusiasm' of the project. Contact between Roger and the rest of the people working on the tour ceased on October eighth, according to e-mail, call, and text accounts. Waters was spotted, however, by a fan at the JFK airport, who recorded a photograph and a short clip posted on the site Reddit, see here:

_{There are two individual links here, leading to the posts by r/kitkatsrh0mo44.]_

But the strangest piece of information? Reports that Waters' Bridgehampton home and studio has vanished. This turns out to be true, as investigators from the New York Times subsequently found out:

[ _A bleak picture of an empty plot of land that was once Roger's house is pictured here.]_

Polly Samson, the wife of David Gilmour, has expressed concern over the disappearance of her husband: "It's quite scary," she says, "To think of that notion that I'll never see him again. The last time I saw him, he said he was going somewhere... I feel horrid that I didn't ask him to elaborate." 

Polly couldn't decline, especially to one of the biggest papers in the world; that would be much too suspicious. So she had to fabricate something for the press to consume, the media was already infesting the situation like cockroaches. To tell the truth was to betray David, and they'd think she was delusional.

_He came upon the body of his lover the next morning, her blue silk dress stained with green grass and dirt, wearing a permanent look of confusion and despair on her ashen face. She would never smile, never contemplate, never cry, never laugh. She was like this for eternity. So he held her stiff, cold hands, and wept._

Nick nor Annette Mason has responded to the New York Times' inquiries. 

What people are thinking? If you might have extrapolated, many are theorizing one thing: a top-secret band reunion. "I would think it's possible," says Bob Erzin, fellow New Yorker and co-producer on various Pink Floyd albums, from The Wall to The Endless River. "Roger and David, I don't see why not: they need to reconcile. The fighting has been going on for half of their lives. This is the most reasonable explanation, unless if you'd be willing to think that they were kidnapped and forced to regroup at gunpoint (laughs)." 

As Erzin notes, there are far less sane proposals, all of them crossing the conspiracy theory line. 

Bob has already gotten in on the skinny, and has spent the last week or so trying to figure out how to disguise the four. He hasn't been directly communicating, but has done his research. There happen to be a number of things going on that are perfect for this time, this revival. Bob's gotten a phone call from Roger, and they happen to have a number of problems on their hand- which, frankly, makes it easier for Bob. Having to pluck them all, without identities and stuff, from England, would present a host of issues. But here they were, having walked in- nor on their own will, but through other circumstances, right into Bob's hands.

Some people are now anticipating new material from the Floyd, but we can never know for sure, until they're found... if they ever are.

* * *

# Brutal Ice Storm Continues to Devastate England With No End In Sight

It was a quiet morning on October 19th, that it was raining over most of the country. Rain is normal, but when it began to freeze on contact, it became a cause for concern. The hours flew by, and the freezing rain accumulated. This became officialised as an ice storm, and now productivity all across England has halted. Pictures of London from a warped city window; showing that of a glacier draped over the city. The ice's weight has caused massive damage, from shattering skylights to felling trees and crushing cars. Meteorologists 'can't foresee with complete certainty' as of when this is going to end. A large accumulation of moisture is being perpetually blown by jet streams directly into the country, the temperature patterns 'a mystery as to how they could've gotten in the North Atlantic'... [The article continues with less relevant information.]

* * *

Ugh... Roger's head swims. It feels so bizarre, and he's not exactly sure where he is. _Again? Roger, you surely must know._ Some stiff, dead carpet, some detergent smell. It feels so... wrong. But he doesn't feel obliged to investigate, he's just tired. It's morning or sunset somewhere, that being here, because ominous red light peeks from behind his eyelids. Something's changed, hasn't it? Clearly, he doesn't exactly remember having the side of his face smashed into an irritating floor somewhere. Or does he? Picking through his memory... fight with Dave, fight with Dave, fight with Dave, argument about the key in measures 19-39, fight with Dave... wait a minute, isn't this stuff from the Final Cut? No, couldn't be, that was a lot longer ago than today... October 21st, in a completely different year. But there are some writhing undertones, crawling like maggots under a decaying corpse's skin, that it's 1983. Is he dying-

- _Oh._ This living nightmare, that's right... He's in a room at the America's Best Value Inn, in Monterey, California, and it _is_ 1983, and _that's_ exactly what's wrong. This is _NOW_ Pink Floyd, though at the very end of their line, and without Wright. This is where nobody will know anymore what is real and what is not. And the point where everyone starts calling him a horsey bloke again. The last part doesn't matter as much... but it's still insulting.

Roger's a fresh-eyed forty today, pushed back out of solo into a band. And what a coincidence, that it happens to be everyone regroups now? They hadn't seen each other in a technical twenty years, or as normal people call it, a week. Now, another five years past, the third five-year thing, and now they were encroaching in radical territory. As Roger could say, the transition from youth to middle-age isn't exactly graceful, especially with some people. He was graced with the fortunacy of having this time stretched out over two decades, instead, but for _others..._ They crashed and burned in a matter of years in the single digits. Seeing this in reverse would be even stranger...

_Never mind, just watch it happen and don't think about it._

Roger flips over, facing the ceiling, and slowly opens his eyes. The room is dim enough, awash in red, and ocular static shifts constantly, giving the room an equally nightmarish appearance. It seems he's fallen off the bed sometime in the night, and is consequently on the floor. He's not alone, though; out of view is Nick, presumably in the bed parallel to his. Roger still doesn't feel very awake, but sits up anyway. An unpleasant feeling of protest cascades down his torso, he frowns to that. Drawing in his limp and aching legs, they slither up like snakes and cross themselves crossly, begging him to just close his eyes for one minute. But Roger won't, he's doing this right now. He forces his stilty limbs into a standing position, and then picks up the clock on the nightstand. In red analogue, it reads **_7:32 A.M._**.Putting it down, he turns his attention to the investigation of the sleeping form, Nick Mason. Vermilion streaks in through the veil curtains, a stark illumination. Roger can only furrow his brow and twist his mouth to one side- It's exactly what he was thinking. Nick's slim frame and comparably short stature was a bit of a laughing matter, but the poor man was clearly insecure about it. The band photoshoots accommodated: Nick always sitting down, in the foreground, placed in the mid-ground while another stood in the background (but symmetrical as to make it look like they were the same height) everyone except him leaning, placed in the "background" (really right behind another band member) and lots of other examples. And here it has returned, in a surreptitious fashion. However, Nick's still thirty-nine, so he looks oddly like Eric Idle.

_And what am I to make out of all of this?_

Roger shrugs to himself, unsure, and walks over, straight-right to the window. He parts the curtains slightly and peeks out. The light has a long-shadowed distinction. It doesn't directly hit them, but its horizontal glow reaches far enough. Roger turns around, and goes to the door. Some fresh air, maybe? It would be nice, but he doesn't want to awaken Nick. He turns and paces back to the window. Dichromatic- there's no real distinction in colour except the crimson and black.

Bob didn't really have a plan. He attempted to justify himself by saying he was busy with the 'immediate' matters. Roger was/is too caught up in the situation as well. In fact, everybody is, and therefore nobody really knows what to do. The rudimentary objective outlined when Bob was trying to find hotel/motel rooms: get back into music without anybody finding out. This is ideally to be done in the retrospect of: find a new, respectable music scene, latch onto it, and generate interest from there. But what exactly? Roger knows that rock, even progressive forms of it, is old news, and that was their offering. Switching genres, and therefore styles, is not an easy feat. They will need to fabricate something if there's nothing offered, and that's likely what is going to happen. They'll probably fail if they don't use the Pink Floyd name, but something needs to budge.

He hears the quiet chirping of a bird, which flits into a cypress, hops around. Is anybody else ever going to be awake? Shouldn't they _do_ something? Seven is more than halfway over, things urgently need to be done. The morning has inebriated him with a meditative state, though, so he's not as snappish, nor would he do that to Nick (unless really irritated).

"Do you think we should...?" hesitates Bob. "I mean, if R- I mean, _they're_ still sleeping, it wouldn't be exactly courteous."

It was indescribably weird to have to wake up and see living proof- well, after the obvious fact, but comparing today from last night. 1983's Richard Wright fluttered his eyelashes at Bob. It's only five years from when he and Pink Floyd first met, and it gives him a distinct impression of The Wall. That makes him a little uncomfortable, as he remembers poor Wright's woes and Waters' fear-inducing presence.

Rick shrugs. "We need to get going." He raps on the door, sending two clear, distinct knocks ricocheting backwards like bullets. Curt footsteps, an unlocking of the door, the loud wrench as it opens. A crack of the door reveals an icy eye, placed high up in an eye socket. It looks down, and the door is opened a little more, revealing the face of Waters, who in the five years/one night has changed from _born to wear aviators and a trench coat_ to _horse?_.

"What?" is the hushed voice of Roger. "Nick's still sleeping."

"Hm," says Rick. "Well, tell him to wake up, maybe."

" _I'm awake,"_ mumbles/shouts Nick from inside the room. There's some noise, and the door is opened to a wide point, where a three-quarters lidded Mason dazedly stares at them, alongside Roger. This is all too fickle, Bob would rather leave.

"Uh, do you need time to get ready?" Bob asks.

Roger and Nick shrug. "Sure," "Yeah." They go back to next door, where David is fashionably seated in the room's chair with his one leg draped over the other, reading _The Carmel Pine Cone_.

"So," he says, shaking the paper so that its top half falls to reveal his face, "What's the plan? For this morning, I mean."

"We're going back to San Francisco," says Bob. "After we figure out our main plan. Have you thought of anything?"

"Not really," says David. They're all clueless.

He's burning up, dizzy and feels like he hasn't slept in days, but still, he flops into the shower, stumbles into his clothes, cuts himself not once, not twice, but five times while shaving, and then makes his gums bleed and toothbrush bristles fall out with his harsh and obsessive brushing. Inarticulately grabbing his trusty Nikon, he stumbles out of the door. Not fit to drive, he drives, miraculously not crashing into anything, and haphazardly parks the car. Falling out of the car the moment he opens it, the photographer lies on his back like a turtle for a minute or so, and then rapidly shoots up- not really, because he hits his head on the bottom of the car door, now a large slash on his head. Slithering from out of there, he gets up, takes one picture of the Bay, and hurls over the railings, stringy, bloody vomit pouring sloppily into the ocean. Now _that_ wasn't delicate blood vessels. Too delirious to care, the photographer forges ahead, snapping pictures. His eyes are bloodshot, and it looks like they're lined with kohl. Nobody sees this, however, nor when red, red krovvy begins dripping from them. He's wasting just that fast. Briefly looking over his shoulder in a moment of lucidity, he realizes what's going on. It's the San Fran pyramid, it's killing him- and then he's back to being half-corpse.

"So, you've got this idea," Roger surmises, "That we're going to play in San Francisco, as a San Franciscan band, without faces."

"Exactly," confirms Bob, at the wheel. Now, a 2015 Toyota Corolla isn't exactly the best vehicle for transporting five full-grown men, but it's all Bob got. Roger's lucky to be sitting in the front seat, even though it gives him flashbacks to the plane. He can't imagine the horrors of sitting in the back, where Rick, Nick and David are compressed together like pages of a book.

"How exactly?" Roger inquires. "I mean, there are venues, there are ways... but how to acquire all of this?"

"I got it written down somewhere," says Erzin. "You need... housing, equipment, false identities, establishment... this is going to be a long process."

It may also have to do with the social situation at hand... Actually, that's a definite. Nick's looking more bewildered at everything than everyone else. Ironic, because he had kept his cool for so long, but now it slaps him across the face. They're in a small valley filled with eucalyptus trees, making everything smell medicinal. Beyond that, as Roger can see, are hills, turned golden with dead grass and splotched with black-green trees. The long shadows are permeated by slivers of red, like feathers of a woodpecker's crest.

Rick's not sure what exactly he's doing. He feels directionless, aimless... It's not like anything's going to change or get better. He feels left out from the band, as he is dead.

_You're too old to lose it_

He's much too out of place for this. When it was 1983, at least he felt in time, but not now. He's stuck in Pink Floyd for yet another life, and it should be despair but he _wants_ to play again. He wants to know the ivories and plastics, dials, cords and chords, metal pedal and the unknowing yet dedicated feeling. You don't know it's history, and so you work twice as hard to make it that way. This version of himself shouldn't exist anymore, it should only be in the fleeting, grainy black-and-white photo, the transient memory buried in the recesses of a wasted mind. He's in denial, but that's falling apart. It was a weak framework of a lie, anyway. Soon, it'll come to a head, and they'll have to take it a day at a time. He feels so strange, watching it happen to the others. He can futilely fib to himself all he wants, but there's no denying that Roger Waters' looks bring back bad memories, or the fact Nick's become positively mouse (again), or that Dave's crawling inch by inch back to looking willfully androgynous. They used to be friends, then business partners, then enemies, then business partners with a half-corporeal relationship... except for Roger.

Rick doesn't exactly feel bad for him, because their ex-bassist brought it upon himself. By declaring yourself master lyricist, master songwriter, master producer, master session musician hirer, master _firer,_ you've effectively alienated everyone else in the band. Nick, the tolerant one, had eventually reconciled, and Rick thought he'd be up for it, but was in the end too uncaring to approach Roger. If they bumped into each other on the street, Rick would invite him for a drink at the pub or something, and they could have a chat... and hopefully heal the old wounds. It could be said that that was happening now, but it's more like being strapped down to a chair, dousing the wound in peroxide, and then cauterizing it with a hot torch. Oh well, at least it's working. Somewhat.

Nick should've realised there was psychological torture somewhere in this before. He remembers looking back at some old photographs, and wondering why exactly he always wore coats like that- now, it was just ridiculous. Trying to recollect his old thought processes, a quick look revealed he was _insecure_. Ha, ha. Something is bothering him now, too, and it's that everyone's taking brief glances at him like sampling a cheese platter. That's making him uncomfortable. This thing isn't exactly bad, but it's a matter of how people are reacting to it. A novelty factor in this slow-burn game, where hair doesn't slowly turn dark and lines fade off the face, but one of the main factors of where attractiveness falls through in middle age. It's unveiling as to who has a bad lifestyle, most of the time at least. Nick won't address it, because _ignoring the thing_ is better.

Also ignoring the fact that Richard 'dead is my middle name' Wright is nearly breathing down his neck, and Nick stares at him in full detail. Photographs don't breathe, or blink, or flit looks at him, nor would he remember the motion dynamics of his hair as it shimmered in the slightest of movements... This narration is turning rather romantic, isn't it? Nick stomps out those bizarre thoughts. That's not foreshadowing anything, he's honest. He raises his hands to himself at gunpoint. _I'm innocent!_ Admittedly, Rick has very attractive eyelashes, he would be mistaken for a woman if he didn't have, maybe, seven masculine features to counterbalance it-

"Nick," suddenly says Roger. Nick did unconsciously hear the mumble of conversation in the background, and realises he had spaced out.

"What is it?" asks Nick, who is face-to-face with Roger, looking over his shoulder.

"You have to sing," says Roger, bluntly.

"What do you mean? Now? When? "

"No, no- I mean, when we start playing," nearly snickers Roger, trying to suppress his sadistically amused smile by making it into a wide grimace.

"Uh," Nick inarticulates, "Why?"

"Our voices- being Rick's, mine, and David's... it runs a risk of suspicion."

"I'm not even a singer," Nick protests. This shouldn't be serious, otherwise Roger wouldn't be laughing... unless?

"In case you didn't hear, Nick, we all agreed on it," interjects David, in a serious tone. Nick feels a sense of doom creeping upon him. This is a joke, it's just a joke. They must have noticed he was spaced out, like on some intense trip on a miscellaneous drug, and-

"It's the reality of the situation," confirms Erzin. Nick finds this newborn conversation to be quickly going downhill.

"Why don't I get to speak for myself? I've sung twice, maybe, and both of those songs are bootlegs, but I _still_ regret singing on them," Nick tries to reason.

"We'll help you," tries Roger. Nick is not having any of this, however. _Him_? He's never sang.

"What's this about?" says Rick, all of a sudden.

Nick _had_ been wondering why as to Rick hadn't been saying anything during this budding altercation, and seems to snap out of a trance state.

"What?" he looks at Roger.

"We mutually agreed that Nick should do vocals," says Roger, "You can, too, but only a bit."

"I didn't agree on it!" cries Nick in exasperation.

"Roger, this should be thought out more thoroughly," says Rick. "You should at least consider the fact it's against his will... and that he doesn't sing."

"Well then, we teach him," Roger replies, loftily throwing around a matter of life and death.

"I haven't sung in a chronological fourteen years!"

"Guys," Bob sighs, "It would be better to teach Nick. If you want to keep anonymous, _no one_ will recognise Nick's voice."

Nick realises he's outnumbered three-to-one-and-a-half, and gives up trying. He'll do something about this later...

The drive has fully extended into the hills, which is covered in flaxen dry grass that ripples under a light breeze. Bob had taken a wrong turn somewhere in San Jose but learned this was an alternate route that cost them a mere six minutes. But, it would take them into an entirely different landscape. It got drier and drier, and soon it's incomparable to Monterey. You'd think it was another country, or at least one of those Midwest states, but somehow not. Well, of course, California has deserts, beaches, forests, mountains, not to mention things Nick doesn't know. There's something oddly mystic about it, the light of the sun dodging and spilling over the smooth shadows of these hills. A dry pastoral scene, yet the foreboding red foretells of dark grey and high winds.

"I want to die," he gurgles to the wild-haired Asian lady at the counter of a drugstore. Blood trickles down the corner of his mouth, in his eyes. She disgustedly shoves the SPAM back towards him. "You can take that for free," she says. He slaps his hand down on the top of the can, closes his fingers, lifts it in a crane-like fashion (making his weak wrist dangle), and stumbles out. His leather Nikon case is spattered with vague red, not very visible against the black. The yellow stitching, however, would like to argue with that.

The highway stretches over across water, daring to make a start across the barely seen blue. The ruby Toyota is on the right side of the split beginnings of a bridge. Light poles, which aren't on right now, stretch out into a curved and distanced horizon, shrouded by San Francisco's fog. The first tower of a certain suspension bridge passes them by, white as the mist, and quickly heads into a tunnel that cuts through a tree-bedazzled island. The clearance is fourteen feet, says the yellow diamond sign. The tunnel is short and straight, brief glimpses of Southern California showing, the exit flanked by a palm tree on each side. The view of the bridge up ahead vaguely reminds Nick of the Sphinx- paws as anchors, main cables as front legs, and the second tower as the main body from the front.

Nick doesn't want to think about architecture. He remembers the dreary time he worked in an office. Even though that was one month of his life, it felt like the (second) longest (compared to this one). There he was, fresh in his twenties, and working at an office. _This is what I'm going to do... All day, every day, until I grow old and grey and my spine breaks. Then, they'll let me go, or I'll be some poor bum in the streets._ And he was tortured by the thought of all those free revolutionaries, who wore their hair long without being thrown dirty looks, and dressed colourfully, and played unusual and fascinating music. _Music_. Nick wanted his drums to spazz out like the things he'd sometimes catch a brief listen to on the illegal radio. _Psychedelic._ And when he got his chance, he took it. Nick would nearly cry in relief, thinking of all the time he saved from the pits of typewriting and technical drawing hell, the person he saved from becoming hardened and conforming to all this establishment stuff. It broke his heart to see the dreams of all the young people crushed by 'reality', who added to the perpetual cycle of boredom and conservatism. He wonders what would've it been like to be an architect, one's mind full of angles and materials and history, full of business and work. Music gives people emotions, makes them feel different, for better or for worse. Buildings can be aesthetically pleasing, functional, but they hold no emotions of their own. A person has to associate it with memory, merit.

Except for one.

He can't see it, but it makes him apprehensive just thinking about it. To be so close in its vicinity is nearly intolerable.

Roger stares down at the fork. It seems...

_Dangerous_ , that's the word to describe it. The building is sinister, egregious.

It's kind of hilarious, the irony of the fork. Roger does remember sometime in 2017, this Salesforce building was being built. It overtook the precious pyramid as the tallest skyscraper in the city, quite unfortunate. He puts the fork back in his coat pocket, the note brushing past. It was really only a week ago that he got it?

Nick's still wondering where the coat came from. It's woollen, black, looks as to fit someone taller, but not as tall as Roger. He won't wear it, he doesn't like the haunted feel it has. So, he looks up. The road appears in front of them as they go along. Green signs are suspended over the freeway via a metal framework, and Nick realises it's all hopeless. This is like the office situation, but here, but he has an absolute of no choice in this. The freeway suddenly splits in two, and Bob goes right. Why is any of this happening? It can't be happening. It's not happening, this can't be real. Nick's wedged, physically and mentally.

"Are you okay?" is offset by the manic whipping of a head. What was a short-cropped haircut of a hygienic man hours ago has turned into a long, greasy and stringy river of hair accompanied by a man who looks like he's having total organ failure. The photographer just may not be the photographer, there's something wrong with him.

He spits some blood on the ground, and smacks a sticky red hand onto the inquisitor's shoulder.

"No," is all he says, in a guttural, suffering voice, and continues his nonlinear cycle of coughing, sneezing, and vomiting blood.

"I think you need to go to the emergency room," says the stranger in a frank tone, backing up and taking the phone out of their pocket. _Does this guy have a disease? Either way, I think I've already caught it_

"DO-" a sputtering cough- "n't." A wheeze follows, and the photographer runs to the railings that separate the sidewalk from the bay. Red clouds blue, and a dark fleshy chunk of _something_ plops in the water. It floats momentarily, then _another_ _something_ drags it under.

"I'm calling 911," announces the spectator, and dials up an operator. The photographer bolts in a jelly-like fashion, his knees taking none of the stress and halfway buckling, but he makes good time. The spectator doesn't chase after him, but directs 911 over the phone to where he is running. They don't find him.

The photographer runs screaming in front of a car, a sparkly-sheen scarlet Toyota Corolla that screeches on the brakes, and regurgitates his sanguine fluids all over the hood. More things are happening to him. He _does_ have total organ failure, but is somehow still alive. He collapses in front of the car, coming to rest right where the wheels are.

"What the- _What the FUCK?"_ Roger is the first one to get out, nearly severing the car door as he throws it open with the force of a rocket, with some difficulty sticks his excessively long legs (only looking longer with less age) and rounds to the front. The others follow suit, shadows casting over the morning. It's a frightening scene- here we have a bone-thin man in a pool of blood, camera case clinging onto its strap whilst flung to the side. Roger can't see his face, it's tangled with a mat of dark hair.

"It looks like we hit him," notes Rick in an unnaturally neutral tone, somehow accepting the fact that somebody just died.

"But we didn't!" exclaims Roger. Arms forcibly gesture. "He- he just fucking died, right there!"

David says something in his resplendent voice, but Roger can't understand him in all the commotion. Great, now what?

"We should leave, or something..." suggests Rick, who's already backing up in long strides.

"Isn't that suspicious?" says Eric Idle/Nick. "I don't think that we should just leave that thing on the road."

"What if they have a virus?" suspects Roger. "Ebola makes you bleed out of every orifice, and it's highly contagious."

_Everyone_ backs away, Rick looking rather pleased with himself.

They stand there in silence for a few seconds, before they hear something. It sounds like slowly breaking large sticks, and then Roger puts it into context. A howling screech is emitted as they hear bones _break_ , or something along the lines of that. Roger is immediately repulsed. He wants to shrivel up in horror. Slowly, the corpse begins to unfold and contort.

" _What- the- fuck,"_ Roger repeats his first line in a whisper. They give the body even more room. Eyes are wide and hearts begin to race, strength leaves and adrenaline kicks in. No morbid curiosity was going to claim them now. Roger is ready to take leave from here, bolt down the street and across the bridge. This thing, whatever it is, it looks as though it's going to do something. Something meaning not good. Yet, he puts on a facade of crassly analytical and stays a foot ahead of everyone else, yet following them. The arms are stretched out, wrist exposed as the hand rears back, fingers in a disturbing and stiff claw formation. They slowly, crudely extend out until they're reaching far and wide as they can go, and then begin to... Roger is forced to gag. Nick frowns in horror, Erzin cranes his neck to confirm what he's seeing is real, Rick has a slightly disgusted expression, and David's eyebrows are sharply arched. The fingers are _elongating_ most horrifically, also making horrific noises. The body follows suit, just-! NO! Roger wouldn't like anything more in the world than to leave, just get the fuck out. This is not natural. Please wake up, please stop this nightmare! It gets so awful that Roger has to close his eyes to this-

_What do you get for pretending the danger's not real?_

He hears it in his ears. He feels dizzy, sick, and it's not from the thing itself. It's an external force, his fork. The fork is doing _something_. Roger, not on his own will, begins walking towards the body. It forces him to open his eyes, and he can barely hear _Roger, what are you doing?,_ and he can't tell who it is. He crouches down in front of the body, and watches its hands, watches it change. To look at it this close is nauseating, tendons rippling, bones snapping and mending, skin stretching out to a near-transparent membrane. It all unfolds like a terrible flower, growing more and more intense, more bloody, more-

And it stops.

There is no resemblance to the photographer. Roger feels incredibly lightheaded, and his vision is blurring. Yet, he focuses on this, making no attempt to leave. Kneeling, he delicately runs his fingers through the hair of the corpse. It's cold, but something's stirring, some old feeling that he can't quite put his finger on. He breathes calmly, deeply. This feeling, it's foreign, it's strange, it's fluttering. It gives him some peace. He closes his eyes. This is gratefully gratuitous, and Roger needs to face it. He's not here to question why, only to look. So he leans over, and takes the hair out of the corpse's face. And that's when it all falls apart.

_No..._

Everything goes dark.

The cloudy sky rests against my eyelids, urging them to open. What an awful dream, that. Growing old, gloomy, then realising I never solved any problems. I think that lasted much too long. What time is it? I'm not sure and don't care, because I am laid to rest here forever, in the dewy grass. The chorus of low winds and the song of a skylark echoes in my ears, the fresh smell of nature reminds me of its good health. I open my eyes.

The river Cam snaking through the willows. The misty white, elegant and mysterious. Me, lying in the meadow, the tall man in the tall grass. Syd, also in the grass, also laid to rest with me, just where I can't see him. He's only a foot away, but we're separated by a wall of foot-tall grass, and I'm looking up and don't want to move my head. It's always a relief to wake up from a nightmare you feel like you'll never get out of. Syd's safe, but maybe I should tell him to take less of the new acid drug this time around. Dead? Locks himself up in his mum's house for the rest of his life? Drug casualty? What does Dave Gilmour have to do with any of this? The bloke, I don't hate him, he's a good person. I think that dream proved Mum right; money didn't solve any of our problems. Syd doesn't care about it, so he's fine by me, but still, maybe I should try and be less materialistic.

The lark sounds closer, and I only have to flit my eyes in the sound's direction to see it. It's a little bugger in one of the trees above, perched in stripes. Its head cocks in curiosity, crest dark against the blinding sky. It continues trilling for us, complex song reeling in the fading heat and falling leaves. It's autumn now, a beautiful morning. The summer once felt endless, when I was little the Cam looked endless, but everything has a beginning and end. Today is October twenty-first, I think, nineteen sixty-six... of course. I don't want to imagine '67, or '68, or any of the years after or before. The dream says that in two years, Syd will have gone completely mad. But he's here, right now, and I can't possibly imagine him like that, dead-eyed and crazy. You know, this is making me a bit confused, and I'm getting a bit scared for Syd. I find myself wondering if he's even there.

"Syd," I say, my rather harsh voice breaking the calm. The human silence remends itself, relieved to rid itself of me. But its welcome is worn out, as Syd may not be there. But then I hear a bit of movement.

"Hey, Roger," is the voice of Syd, as pleasant as the skylark, who continues singing. He doesn't break the silence, but slowly tunes it to his frequency. It makes me warm inside just to hear it. "How's life like over there?"

"Oh, it's great," I say. "I feel like I haven't heard your voice in years! Do you know what's the time?"

I hear some rustling, presumably Syd checking his watch. "It says here, time to get out, my clothes are all wet." He sits up, revealing his face. I follow suit, and find the cold contrast of my back to the air reveals I have the same hyperhidrosis of the clothes. And then I notice something strange.

"I don't remember you wearing that," I tell Syd, pointing to his shirt. It _was_ a pleasant pink, as far as I can remember, but now it's black, with orange poppies on it. In fact, I don't ever remember him wearing that on any day, ever.

"Me neither," says Syd, who shrugs it off like it's normal. "You know, we need to go." Oh, yeah. _Rehearsals_ for the concert today. It excites me to know we seem to be rising in popularity, the uncertainty of the future fading away with each fan made, each song played, each ticket sold. I was worried that we'd fade into obscurity as some college gig-claimer, never making it out of an infantile stage, and soon I'd have to go back to studying architecture against my will. We're even considering making an album by next year, imagine that. _Each record sold_ could be added to the list of values that increase certainty.

"Saint's Hall- that's right," I sigh. "We have to be there by eleven."

"No, not that," Syd interjects with a wave of his hand. "We're leaving this place, here, forever."

"What do you mean?" I ask. Is Syd talking nonsense again? Yet his eyes look fine, and his intonation is sharp and sincere.

"We're getting out," he announces with finality, and stands up. I stand up, too. and for a second we look out on Grantchester Meadows, the field of memories. The verdancy sways, the water shimmers. This is the present moment, and we're here to cherish it, right?

Syd begins his long, cautious stride across the grass, gracefully parting with every length he takes. I'm not as deft as that, and trample some of the grass. It crumples under my foot, and I feel false, like an enemy.

I halt when I notice Syd has stopped in the middle of the field. He stands there, uncanny in some bizarre way. I come up beside him, parallel, and look down to see what he's looking at.

A hole that seems to stretch into oblivion. I don't feel very well.

"Syd," I say. "What's going on?"

"We're going down there," replies Syd, who suddenly has grown longer hair. He looks towards me, something missing in his now-empty stare, dark circles under his black-framed eyes.

"Are you okay?" I ask. _I_ feel older, too, for the worse. In fact, positively awful.

"Roger, what's happening?" Syd is suddenly confused. The trees shed their leaves, we're momentarily blasted by snow, which melts and gives way to shoots and flowers, watch the flowers bloom and die, get stabbed by hot rays of sunshine, and suddenly, the trees shed their leaves. Only halfway, though, now they're caught in a half-bare state. I look back at Syd, even longer and messier hair and stubble, who looks vacant but still staring directly at me. Me, who feels all too old, all too mental. My mind is burdened with indistinguishable thoughts, which hurt like a bad headache. I can't tell what they are, but they seem to be acidic.

Syd suddenly darts his hand towards mine, and grasps it with firm certainty. "We're going now," he repeats, in a far hoarser and flatter voice, then walks into the hole. He's gone, and now I'm lost. Without Syd, now what? Can I cry now? Do I feel enough to cry?

...Until I realise he's holding my hand, and I begin to fall too, slowly but surely, an anguished realisation filling my head. I feel the blood slowly rush to up there as we leave the meadows, deeper, darker, into blackness. The lark's song holds on, echoing in the tunnel, distorting and reverberating until it's a nightmarish metallic warbling, which devolves into a drone. At first, we drift like a feather, then plummet like a stone, faster and faster. He's below, and the light and colour and sound fades into blackness, eventually becoming nothing. I see nothing, hear nothing, smell nothing, and taste nothing... but I feel something, I still feel the cold warmth of Syd's fingers, interlaced with mine, and I hold on to the hope that we're going somewhere.

There's a pinprick of light. It wants to grow, it wants to be something more than what it is. As we fall, that allows it to dilate, highlighting shadow and colour, which is nondescript all around as nothingness becomes darkness, and the dark is replaced by the light. It wants to consume us, so out comes everything in sight, a brief interval where everything is clear.

You seem to be nothing, but everything at the same time. You can't tell if this is life or death, left or right, the sun or the moon. All you know is Syd and his brief reappearance, you hold onto Grantchester, which seems like aeons ago, even though it was just seconds. But it's not. You can't remember what year it is, but you just a minute ago would've considered it the unthinkable future.

You realise that it's a dream, this was all a dream... Does that mean Syd is a figment of your imagination? You aren't exactly sure, but you try to get closer. If you try hard enough, if you cling on, if you hold him tight, you can save him. You try, really attempt with genuine effort, you feel the life in him. His hair flutters, and he looks at you in disoriented nonchalance. You try to tell him is fine, but your words fall out of your mouth and remain stuck where you said them, while you reach up Syd's arm to get him closer. He looks concerned, maybe frightened, you take it inch by inch, like climbing a rope. Your other arm is close enough, you claim his right shoulder. He seems to be fading, and desperation spikes. Movements become more forceful, he's scared of you, just barely trying to move to get away.

_No, Syd! Don't leave!_ You finally have a positional advantage, you reel him in and hug him for dear life. A faint feeling comes over you- you're the one fading into mist, dust, fine particulate matter. But so follows Syd. You can be nothing together.


	11. Sage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter's rather piny; in the sense that it has a lot of sap. It's also got trains. More trains, I mean. If you don't like trains, that's fine, but uh... yeah. I don't know what else to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the long wait; had a bit too much fun on AIDungeon (where you can fill out your deepest darkest fantasies [aka Nick Mason stumbling around in a desert] with the help of a machine learning bot). Would've released this chapter two days earlier; but was an idiot and neglected to do so.

_October 22nd_

Someone's calling Roger's name. Which Roger? What Roger? Who's Roger?

Why Roger?

There's something drawing long and achy about it, horrid in a particular sense. Something is wrong, is what Roger can articulate. Wrong with him, wrong with the place he's in, wrong about the notion of the atmosphere. He can't exactly think, however. As he's used to. Abstract garbling noise snarls around, he doesn't feel like getting up. Roger's waiting, still waiting, and he's still tired. At least people won't see him today, he was going to take it off. Rosemary said something... he can't remember what, but it was something important. He's ready to... nothing. He's not ready, not ready for any of this. And why is his thinking like this? It's more jumbled than usual, there's old bits rattling through his mind. A life he left behind a long time ago, but he was looking into Roger's eyes. As the other Roger, the other Roger he can barely remember. He knows it from somewhere, him from somewhere, but only 'cause he shares the same name. Roger can barely understand why exactly there was this other Roger, apart from the fact they share the same name. Roger is displeased, rather cross that the other Roger has the same name as him. The audacity! Why exactly, even? Did that bastard steal his last name, too? Roger Barrett, huh? You took my name! Give it back!

A physical expression of anger is felt, as he's lying down on an unknown name. _One who loses their name feels anxiety descending._ The name is lying beside him, eyes closed, Roger's eyes are closed too, so how does he know the name is?

He doesn't. He doesn't want Barrett to be this other chap's last name, so he tries to reconcile with a catalogue. Wright on that, not exactly as a matter of fact. Mason lids don't fit this specific kind of jar. Not Klose enough. O'Rourke revoked. But there's one that fits like Cinderella's glass slipper; that being... um... Poor me can't remember. He tenses with the struggle. It's clear like glass, that's for sure. Puddles, ponds, streams, rivers, oceans... the rain, he knows that well. The roses sparkle when it does. A hand touches him from somewhere, likely namely nowhere. It may just be nothing, yet another attempt at name. Name, name, name, name name name... rose. A rose by any other name would smell just as sweet. This touch by any other name is- what is it? Cats, rats, RATS, lay down flat? Roger's lying down flat. Flat somewhere, in a flat or a name. An old ditty he heard somewhere. There's a guitar, it's telling him, _"It's Syd._ " Syd's here? That old bloke from the club? Someone is dangling a broom on his face, it's a name, it's a hand, it's a bed, he is dead- no, that last part isn't exactly true. Is it? He's getting rather iffy about being dusted like that. Roger wants to teach the broom a lesson by opening his eyes, but he doesn't really want to. So he does.

There's something broken and fuzzy about it, it's fine. He sees a cat, a dun cat that was once a kitten. But it's a sad man, somewhat familiar, however. So why aren't you a cat? Oh well, there's something not, well, right about this. But it's so inexplicably WRIGHT. Who is that? What is left and who goes right? Did I take a wrong turn somewhere?

"Syd," says Wright, as is his name. But what if it's also Roger? Roger Wright? There's that hand, which is Wright, and brushes some dark strands out of his eyes. "...Syd? Can you... can you hear me?"

"I'd be mistaken, who is that?" It does not come out coherent. Roger can't hear all too well, so maybe he misheard his own name as Syd, maybe misheard his own words are muffled or mumbled. Wright has some look in his eyes that Roger can't make out.

"It's me, Rick," says Wright. Rick Wright, apparently. So, he wasn't stealing Roger's name.

"What's your middle name?" Middle of the conversation, but Roger's having a hard time distinguishing his voice from his thoughts.

"William," echoes through his thoughts. This Rick Wright is getting farther and farther from his scope of vision, he looks... is he a friend? Is he a producer? Why would this guy be a producer? Isn't Steve... Steve, of course. Steve O'Rourke. Roger needs Rosemary, but he's not sure where she is. Who's Steve? What's his job?

_I just need some fresh air, that's all..._

There's two others, he... he doesn't know. What pesters him, though, is that they look oddly embedded in Roger's mind. But this Richard, he is familiar with the art of being recognised. At least partway, Roger doesn't recognise the context within it. The three look twisted, irregular, rather just fresh out of relevance, and mingle with odd things in his vision- shadow figures and streaks of colour. He can usually pick out which is real and what is not...

"Syd," begs the attention of the Wright. It becomes even more static, and Wright's face blurs into the negative and wrong hues-

A sharp and awful lurch- It's... Roger fumbles at the bedsheets, wherever he is. This isn't normal, only a dream of some sort, a dream with cold and lucidity in it. He knows exactly what Rosemary said; and that was he was dying. Of course, he would go out that way... so this was probably a waiting room. He looks up, and sees something he wasn't expecting to. These are long-past friends, looking at him in a jumble of mourning and joy, and they're somewhat older. No other Roger, though, just Nick, Rick, and Dave Gilmour. The dream, it was strange and sensual, and had jolted his mind awake for the moment. He savoured every drop of the full awareness he had, and could focus on one thing at a time- the lark singing, the grass growing, could look into George's eyes without an aversion to them, or anyone's if he chose. But he can barely flit his eyes up to the trio staring down at him, and instead focuses on the lingering glasses-laden man in the corner, who passes him a glance. This goes by without any confrontation.

Maybe, his old friends of youth have died, and they're greeting him 'up there' or 'down there'.

"Am I dead?" is the first thing he can usher, with full certainty, out of his mouth.

"No," replies the slightly aged Rick.

"Then where?" Roger has to ask.

"San Francisco," the older keyboardist sighs. "You died in 2006." As if he knows something, which he likely does, and proves it with announcing the year.

"Where's Roger?" Roger won't address it, but they didn't even bother. Nobody looks _that_ good at... wotsit? Someone old at an old age. None of them do, even so if slightly washed out. 

"Over there," points Rick, and his finger directs towards the obvious: a figure less tenderly placed, maybe so with contempt. You can smell contempt, anyone can. If contempt is the main source of contempt, what did George do to make it so contemptuous? Or, was it contempt that George enforced upon the already contemptuous... what? We are here, okay, he is dead. OR. Something. Something. Doing, DO SOMETHING. Come on, think. The harder I try, the harder it gets, but when Roger doesn't try, I drift off into nothingness. So it has to be a median of thinking and non-thinking. There's a shadow in the corner. Was it already there? But there's a thing on the bed, is that me? The other bed, you name it. Name it. It's name is George and it has some contempt in or out at it. George Roger. George Roger... something. Something. George Roger Rat? George Roger Rose? George Roger Cat? Wot? Something that begins with an S and ends with... nothing. Nothing goes on forever, doesn't it? Damn, then I'll never know the entire thing. DESPAIR, Roger. George Water Rogers? Where'd that chap come from? It rained on the name. It's not raining out, though. It's blurry and strange.

"He's lost," enunciates the rain. "I think his brain's in 1969. He had already gone mad."

"He's lost," Roger repeats, 'cause the rain's trying to teach him how to speak. "I think his brain's in 1969. He had already gone mad." But then I take the context, and sit up, ready to reassure the nervous Rick.

"Oh, don't be so gloomy!" I say, quite loud so he can hear me, unlike when I couldn't hear _him_. "I'm right here, Ricky!"

Rick's looked like he's seen a ghost, the poor old chap scuffles back. Nick looks quite surprised, Dave Gilmour appears curious.

"Syd?" Is the single inquiry of old Dave Gilmour. Now, I can't quite... I... Roger can't really take that name anymore. Why? He left that life behind, but he's clearly somewhere where he can't just pack his bags and leave. And, he's got a strange old mop of hair. Trying to take it off, it sticks to his scalp, and he realises it _is_ his hair, somehow. Somehow. Somehow, all of this happens. He needs to talk to George Roger Waters, as he linearises the name. Some memory of a dream, or was it a dream? Dreams, he has a hard time knowing if they're real or not. Poor old me can't think of a single word to say. George over there seems to be stirring, mind going into his own gear. I don't feel particularly safe, but I want to talk to George. I need to talk to George, because these three and that four over there aren't him.

_Syd..._ Syd, Syd, Syd. Roger thinks he's heard him with his very ears, saw him with his very eyes. That is not the case, it seems. Roger want to cry now, die in a hole, fucking weep. It seemed as if the future was bright and _there_ , where it would actually be the two of them in old Cambridge, on that lovely morning some long half-century ago. Where Syd was innocent, where he wasn't tortured by his brain. Where Roger could still talk to him, where I was too naive to know all the horrible things in this world. Too bad to be disappointed. Too fucking bad, George. This could go either one of three ways right now, all of them increasingly miserable. A, Roger is dead. B, none of this weird shit happened and it was all a dream. C, It all happened, and Roger is passed out somewhere, again confused where he is. The third being the worst, as it's back to his dreadful existence, with the addition of more problems than he can count on any of all eight of the hands that were directly available.

Roger doesn't want to find out.

But then Roger hears _this_ , a loud: " _OH, DON'T BE SO GLOOMY, RICKY! I'M RIGHT HERE!"._ It's so wonderfully childlike, and it's momentarily touching. That voice sounds so familiar, too familiar for him to deny. It's a thing his ears wouldn't ever hear again, he thought, but he's finally mad enough to be greeted by Syd. But he didn't address Roger, rather 'Ricky'. As in... _Richard._ But then, Roger may be dead, because Rick, Rick Wright, is dead as well. There's a murmur from another, and he can tell who's that, too.

_David._ It makes Roger's stomach twist, his blood boil, his heart acidic. There's Syd, across the wherever, and he's talking to _David?_ If Syd's alive, Roger desperately need to talk to him... but he don't want to open my eyes.

"Can I talk to George?" is the more inebriated tone of dear Syd, and Roger realise he's addressing _him_. It's making him sick and dizzy all over, almost like joy, almost like love. Not in that sense, but it's logical to do so when... he just...

Roger opens his eyes, facing upward towards a blank ceiling. The premise of communication, he's shaking, SYD. SYD?! The air forces itself into Roger's lungs, and his lungs force it out, over and over, making his head rattle. He feels feverishly hot, and inarticulately throws his limbs to the right in an attempt to get out of here, get to the voice. It dislocates Roger's entire person, and he's falling, he's falling down the hole again, and a shock!- of pain slams him-

-me, into the floor. The agony reverberates like around like a tolling bell, then it slowly begins to leave. It seems, that in my disorientation, that I have ungracefully crashed, down into a world of hurt. There are footsteps I don't want to hear, in this vulnerable position of humiliation. I'm down on a characteristically ugly mosaic carpet, a shriveled-up corpse. There are four pairs of shoes that advance towards me, three stop at one point and hang back, and then one continues boldly venturing into my proximity. So this is my first impression of my 39-year old self, _still_ naive, so eager to take it without questioning. What if Syd isn't even there? What if I'd just-

"Roger, are you okay?" is the plain but concerned tone that I hear, and I flit my eyes up to see the worried Nick, who somehow is able to look casual and worried at the same time. I guess I'm more fortunate that it's him, instead of Rick or _David._

"I'm fine," I sigh. I'm just itching to get out of here, or be assimilated into the carpet of this hotel room. Giving up all hope of that, I sit up, only to find an abnormality on the bed opposite of the one I was freshly removed from. I can't move my gaze up there, I won't. But- but-what-where? A dark shape in the top of my peripheral, which then swings over as two black pant legs, two bare feet. These are highlighted by a pair of hands, which ease the body down, down... I won't look, not now. But parallel to me is a definite, which mirrors my position of crossed legs staring at the other side.

"Roger?" _he_ asks, gentle and saccharine. Never from anyone else, all the 'sweet' things I've heard are accompanied by a sickly undertone, displeasing to the aural palette. But this is pure, not cut by filler, and it's not just acceptable, not just palatable, but a choice flavour. Colour seeps into my brain, and I feel the hair around my face, I see the threads of my clothing, I can _smell_ how delicate it is. I can't say anything, it'll ruin the moment. The four others are millions of miles away, watching our interaction with curiosity, alien life-form observation. I'm not going to look at them, instead I look at Syd's sleeve, which moves down to rest on the side of his knee. My focus ambles from his deathly still fingertips, up his thin, pale fingers, bridged by tendons under skin, leading to a sleeve, up a shirt that is midnight-black with... orange poppies. Orange poppies, just like...

I feel his stare on me. He knows what I'm thinking.

"I don't know," I unexpectedly mutter. Did I solicit that? It doesn't matter, I can already imagine. It's a terrifying feeling, my very soul being crushed by the fragility of the moment. I hold it in my hands, not knowing what to do.

"Me neither," I crave that voice, I cling onto it with my very being. I can't bear to look, but my gaze is moving up his arm, and trying to go across. I apprehend it with difficulty, and it perches on his shoulder in frustration. There's something in my eyes, it's caused by the frustration, by Syd. My throat is curling back in on itself. I must look like a tired old fool, if anything at all, to him, who is waiting expectantly. He knows I'll get there, no matter how hard I'll try. My eyes hurt, something's coming from them. It's hot like fresh blood, and slides down my dry and deadened face. Syd tilts his head, and this breaks the lingering of my focus. It continues, a patterned collar tossed with the same poppies, and from flower to flower it flits. An emerald hummingbird with a shining claret throat, sipping nectar in a void of darkness. But off my eyes go, now up his neck, a knife slicing diagonally through, and stops, balanced on the bottom of his chin. My head has tilted, too, and follows back to straight as he does. There's a steady stream of saline solution, which traces down the edges of my nose, the corners of my mouth, and down my neck, blotted by my shirt. But I don't inspect it, I have to try to not break this. I focus on this event horizon, trying to go back to the point of no return. All my eyes have to do is twitch, and I'll pull away. I can leave this... I try-

They've gone the wrong way, and slip, up too fast and I'm pulled lengthwise, head tilting while his is straight, and I!

Those eyes! THOSE eyes. These-these-these... I'm stuttering, no.

There's something I'm scared of, that's cold and flinty in those eyes, like sharp ice or glass. I once cut my hands on a piece of ice, I'm not sure how. Roger has suddenly been through so much more, and it shows. There's a weariness and hatred in his eyes, looking... what's the word... misanthropic. Quite misanthropic. This looks nothing like the friend I know, or knew. This man has done cruel things, and he's missing a piece, a few degrees off. He looks miserable, that's what's lacking. Happiness. I want to stand up, and walk away, not try to sort this out. But wouldn't it be courteous?

I show my inquiries, and slowly, his eyes laboriously drag up, and this tapestry of frost begins to melt away. Now, I'm looking straight into these eyes. These wide eyes, a watery blue that drips with tears, and a confronted fear. I can feel direct contact with this, and I'm not sure if I'm looking through him or not. This doesn't feel translucent, but like an intersection, four glass marbles intersecting with a loud clacking noise. This seems to shatter a vase, which has shards that cut and bleeds. Be careful. I can see him break, and it becomes apparent that he's crying. Why? There's no reasonable answer to it, not a reason to the question. There's not an exact thing to say, but I get lost sometimes, so maybe if I try hard enough, I can pluck something out for him.

Roger, do you want a carnation? A buttercup? A nightshade? I want to ask him, but he's too tearful. And, there appears to be no flowers, besides the ones on my shirt. I want to be in a field of lilies, or crocuses, or in the poppies, to just be there or otherwise. As a poor compensation, a weak semblance, I take my hand and put it on his shoulder. This only makes him cringe and sob harder, and so I pull away. This feels all too strange, and I don't like it all too much.

I didn't notice there was another pair of legs, which turned my peripheral attention to them. My eyes slide off, and the moment of tension escapes back into the shadows. I can take a deep breath as I see this 'new' face, who is Nick. Nick can look old however he wants, but seeing through it, I can see the same person under it. He gives me a thoughtful look, and begins tending to the over-watered bloom.

It was intriguing to see Syd, but now Roger is a wreck. Nick feels like he's trying to rescue a wounded animal, likely one large and vicious. But he's not here to villanise his friend, but rather to rope him out of the throes of a breakdown. He feels too close for this, there's a point when you get close to someone like Roger where time and space distorts.

A few minutes pass without anything being done.

Nick cannot afford at all to feel this awkward. Yet again, he is sandwiched between two things, this time the voracious gazes of Syd Barrett and Roger Waters. He's wilting under the intensity, but still, the three sit there in a cultish triangle on the floor. Nick had quietly and indirectly communicated to the three others to leave, and they, luckily, were sensitive enough to pick up on his signals, went shuffling out the door. Is he the only one rational enough to do this? Sometimes, including right now.

He swallows.

"So..." he attempts, a spark in the rain. It's quickly killed by the downpour, however. A particularly sensitive-looking Roger, with eyes as wide as they can go, shows no response as he continues staring Nick down. At least Syd shows some life, gazing up as to think in indecision, shifting a bit, then deviates his mouth to one side. He then looks at Nick; shrugs. Even though the light may be gone from his eyes, there's still a level of alright that he holds. But more often than not in the past few minutes, his head stoops, a prominent shadow coming over his eyes. So this is Nick's life now.

He sighs. This feels exactly like the moment in the Portland Cafe, where nobody wanted to say anything, but there were things to be addressed. Nick feels like something should be, but he's not sure what.

"Um, I think we should take some time to... talk?" He suggests, feeling iffy. This is making him uptight, considering everything, and now Syd coming back from the dead. There's something thrashing around in that brain of his, bright flashes of awareness that fizzle out and flare back up in an internal battle. Roger seems to have acquired a complete torpor, not moving at all, in a deadened state of shock. Nick looks back and forth at the two, vying for something that he has. _Would that be sanity?_

"Did you... did something happen?" says Syd, who is looking up again. "Where are we?" Oh, no. Not now, Syd.

"Yes," replies Nick in a dry tone. "As a matter of fact, I think you brought upon Roger's internal death." His tolerance for this is tapering, frustration fraying his edges. Syd tilts his head yet again, trying to make something out of the silence.

"Roger," he suddenly says. "Roger, we're here." As expected, he doesn't respond. This feels like watching an interaction between children. Waters cannot say anything. Syd furrows his brow, and looks around like he's just gotten there. "So, this is 'here'," he concludes, and crosses his arms. "Hm. Nick, do you know where 'here' is?"

"Well... San Francisco?" Of course, they had neglected to tell Syd that, so it is a relevant question.

"Quite," Syd shrugs, as if he was the one answering the question, "These are California poppies." He nails one down on his sleeve. At this point, Nick can toss away the reality of the situation into a trash chute. This shouldn't be real, he's just dreaming. One hundred percent. Totally. Yes is the word. The bird is the word. The year is not 1983, nor is it 1969, nor will it be 1966. Nick mirrors Syd, crossing his arms, but in a different context. This is defiance of the thing one is face-to-face with.

It all shatters when Roger sharply gasps, then coughs hard in response to his acute pulmonary stimulation. The others are disturbed, and slightly draw back to this fit. Doubling over, the previously still man is now brimming with animation, hacking and wheezing.

He stops, squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, like a horse disturbed by flies. Blinking multiple times in a rapid sucession, Roger reorients himself with a twitch of his face. He has his mouth, half-open, tip of tongue touching teeth as if he was going to say something. And then he seems to realise what kind of situation he's in, expression sinking into that of mystification, despair, and anxiety.

"Roger. Are you there?" Nick has to ask.

Roger nods slowly, eyes drifting around the room. A patient coming out of their coma, no idea where they are or why they are there. "I... I'm sorry about that," he says in a stiff but dreamy tone. His eyes float down on Nick, and over to Syd. Captivated by the latter, they hover, then decide to roost.

"So," he says, conversation coming full circle, now deviating on another path of another loop, "What now?" Syd drifts off again, and Roger fills that hole by turning to that of Nick's mediocre stare. Nick isn't anyone special, but he at least has some consistency. That may also be his weakness, being too boring. Introspection isn't being nice to him.

"Wait, I guess."

* * *

An hour has passed; and the door has abruptly opened. Roger is busy scribbling something down at the room's desk, Nick is occupying Syd (or is Nick occupied with Syd?). The three snap their heads towards the action, eyes resting upon the two figures that have appeared.

"So you're back," says Roger, looking at the doorway. There's Dave and Rick, but no Bob. "Where's Erzin?" he asks.

"Erzin's gone out to some studios," informs Rick. "Don't really know what he's doing there." David nods in affirmation. Rick does have a bit of an idea, actually a nearly certain idea, but that sprinkle of the unknown prevents him from establishing it as fact. But the others interpolated that, and Roger furrows his brow.

"Visiting a studio already?"

"I think just looking around," Rick reasons. "I don't think any of us are familiar with this city, much less its music scene, including studios and venues. Bob is covering for us-"

"We're going to stay here?" Roger presumes, leaning forward in the chair. "Besides the inconvenience of travel, why?" Rick doesn't feel very comfortable, rather he feels confronted. Even though Roger's inquiries are innocuous, he can see into the past, where that same face interrogated him with _Why haven't you gotten to work, Wright?,_ and _You didn't compose or write anything over the MONTH-LONG break, plus the extra time conjured by your ungrateful insistences and ignorance of work?_ The demanding rimy eyes, with overtly lucid gleam and frequent nictation, hand him a chip to put on his shoulder, but Rick drops it on the floor.

"I'm not sure," he sighs, "But the inconvenience of travel is obviously the main factor." It feels too bold to talk like this to Waters. "It is fortunate, however, since no one expects us to be here."

"It would be much worse if it were, say, New York or London, or Nice," Nick adds.

"What do you mean?" questions Syd, who seemed to not be listening until Nick joined in.

"Well, Syd, it's hard to explain, but..." Rick squirms under his look of emptiness. "... We got famous after, you know, you left." The other seems to be unable to comprehend this, and gives Rick a squint. "Was it the one after Atom Heart Mother? Uh... what's its name?"

"Meddle? No. It was the one two albums after that. We made another soundtrack album, and then this one for work got everyone's attention. Dark Side of the Moon-"

"-Was that the one where you made a song about a... steel breeze? I can't remember much from that, but it was a long time ago, anyway."

The whole world stops. Everybody is staring at Syd. Rick wasn't sure if it was him with _all_ of his memories, or for his whole life, if Syd even remembered the time he wandered into the studio, brushed his teeth, made Roger cry, and got to listen to a song about himself. And he doesn't even remember the crucial part... ironic. But just the mere fact that he's aware of it, he knows just that little fragment of a steel breeze...

"No," forces out Rick, as to not leave Syd hanging in the awkward silence. "That- that was the one _after_ Dark Side."

"How many have you made?"

"Fourteen."

"That would be fifteen, actually," Nick interjects. "We made our last in 2014." A visible flash of resentment on Roger's face is caught in Rick's peripheral. _Wasn't invited, maybe._ He wants to inquire what the album's all about, but stays silent so they can attend to Syd's orientation of Pink Floyd's state.

"That's a lot..." Syd trails off. A sickening feeling takes hold of Rick. To see him vacillate downwards like this is rather unpleasant, and the conversation bleeds out. Roger's face deteriorates into pain, and quickly twists around, hunches over his writings. _Doesn't want to seem vulnerable?_ A flicker of pity is felt. The room is suffused with Syd's new state, but David hands the paper bag to Nick. That paper bag, of course, with iffy contents in it. Nick gives David an apprehensive look, but acquiesces. Of course, new clothes aren't usually an iffy thing, but when Nick looks absolutely homeless in what used to fit, you have to do something. Nick sifts through the contents, and gives them a gracious half-lidded look (well, he's always like that).

Another hour. The four and fifth are scattered across the room, Rick keeping himself busy by silently observing everyone else. The one unsaid rule: _Don't touch the television_. Whatever it is, there seems to be an awful poison to it. The first thing to appear on a motel television is the news, and they don't want to know what's going on. Ironically, Roger has the New York Times in his dinner-plate hands. It's nearly comedic to see his face distort in confusion and exasperation, muttering to himself, but the crown jewel, right now, when he becomes stiff and stupefied.

"There's an article in the _NEW YORK TIMES_ about us?!" is the outraged shattering of silence enacted upon. This immediately snags everyone's (but Syd's) attention, and they're all clustered around the paper. Roger, who had his legs kicked up on the desk, flings his legs off with a swing of the office chair, and brings the spinning to a halt.

"This is yesterday's paper," he hisses in horrified anger, briefly folding the paper and pointing at the date _October 21st_. Opening it back up, in the Arts section is the headline _Where is Pink Floyd?_ (full version). Contextually transparent lies through Erzin and Polly Samson are seen, with much relief, and a long drawl about the fighting between the band, all that shag. Roger gets done before them, and puts it on the desk. "Dreadful, just dreadful," he scoffs. "We're going to be found out. People are going to be looking for us." The others arch over, still trying to get a good read out of it, and Roger pawns his notes before anyone can read them, Rick observes. He's not going to confront; he doesn't need to face the astringent short-sharp-shock wits that the writer possesses.

"Well, that's not good," is Nick's summarisation of what everyone's thinking. "No one's seen us, though." That is true, even when they had to carry and drag the unconscious persons of Syd and Roger, respectively, into the car, wait crammed in there as Erzin tried to find a hotel, booked a room at the Bay Bridge Inn, and then usher themselves in.

Three hours pass, Rick is finding that Roger has gotten Gideon's Bible and has been distending the verses into lyrical propaganda. There's a brief recollection of his introduction of the Sheep lyrics to the band. _The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want/He makes me down to lie/Through pastures green/He leadeth me the silent waters by/With bright knives he releaseth my soul/He maketh me to hang on hooks in high places/He converteth me to lamb cutlets/For lo, He hath great power, and great hunger._ He converteth us to tears, for lo, he hath great satire. The door opens, and this time, it's the singular Erzin. "Some producers there _know_ me, somehow," he sighs, sounding exhausted. "They began interrogating me about you guys."

"Bob, did you know there's an... it's the headline article of the Arts section in the Times!" Roger once again picks up the paper and shoves it in Bob's general direction. Like a bird offered seed, Bob approaches, and looks straight down.

"Oh, wow," he frowns. "Not great."

October 23rd

1978, a decade left, and I have to realise it's come faster than I could have ever realised. As soon as I woke up, I realised: this is it. We've crossed into the seventies, overstepping the threshold of irrelevance into our twilight prime years, and it's absolutely painful. As I can very personally recollect from the past scattering of days, I was myself, and now I'm not, in definite. Roger Waters of the (past) present is practically redundant, technically deceased.

_Something happened on the day he died_

_Spirit rose a metre and stepped aside_

_Somebody else took his place and bravely cried:_

_I'm a blackstar!_

I'm not going to accept that as fact, however. I'm not sure which is true or false anymore, and have subsequently decided to remove myself from the situation. I wish that was easy as pinching my arm and finding myself awake, able to evaporate and exit the presence of pompously mute David, nor be tormented by the two dead people in the room (Rick isn't as important as... you know who). But, it was easy for Erzin, who decided to accommodate by booking another room. I feel for the guy, how many motel rooms does he have to book? Nick is the most tolerable, as always, so I find myself entwining myself onto his propinquity. I feel caged up, some kind of animal prowling in its confines, but still slowly dying like any one other of its species. Erzin's treating us like nestlings, who are flightless and incapable of doing normal bird things in the world out there, and are likely to get hunted by hawks...

...Now thinking about it, that may or may not be a matter of fact. I'm not going to look up what I wrote down, for the spirit I can articulate with my ocular functions across the room is death itself. If I'm ever going to agonize myself by looking into those indelible shadows, I think I might just die. Mental illness may not be physically contagious, but it is a brain malfunction in thought. Thought can be passed from one to another, verbal or not. And for a moment, I thought I saw through Syd's glassy eyes- they revealed pain and bewilderment, beyond-the-veil and that aggrieved me. No time for my dignity, I wept, like I swore myself to do never again. But this was for him, and I don't care if the others are going to take me less seriously. This is all for him. Oh, that crack seems to be leaking again. Tears drip on paper, so I sink lower. My hopes and dreams, conjured by the latter of oh-so-many years ago, were dashed. And, I can't get away, because Syd has nowhere to go. Being in the room means boiling my very spirit in caustic acid, watching it rapidly melt, and my constitution and mental structures crumble. 1978... 1978... Just the number itself is awful. I wish it were today or 1966 already. Anything in between is beyond words worse. What it it doesn't even add up to that? What it we stop now? What if today is the day where we linger?

What if I have to watch Syd still be like this? It's nearly impossible to bear. He's like a blank slate. Not a clean one, but one who forgot it had words, all that's left is was a blur. He stares at me with dark vacancy, but there's swimming thoughts, minnows flashing silver in deep, shaded pools.

_My book is closed_

_I read no more_

I can remember. 1970. We had left the 1960s behind; peace-and-love ideals and our hope of a different, better future gone. There was a stagnant feeling, as if when the sixties, when Syd left us, it left with our youth and vibrancy, our ability to decide who we wanted to be gone. We realised we were going through our lives fundamentally the same way our parents were. We lusted after money, we did dispassionate hard work for it, we found our women, married them, the beginnings of a family locking us into this regiment. But we were just ordinary men, not wild rock stars like you would see in the Who or Stones. Syd was special, he had a tangible spark- no, more than that, a good candle's worth- of uniqueness, and he was our frontman. He was arty, childlike, bold and ready to try anything. He wasn't in it for the money, but because he liked doing it. We were the boring townies in the background, ready to carry out his visions. It seems, always in a case of a band with a clear leader who dies or some-other, the rest fall apart. The Doors. France, 1971. Jim Morrison dies in his hotel room, and the other three try to continue, to little success. 1991. Freddie Mercury dies of AIDS. His bassist quits forever and becomes a recluse, the other two have barely released any new material since then. Led Zeppelin... well, they had three well-known wild people in their band, but when one of them died, that being John Bonham, they disbanded. It seemed we were small enough to drop Syd without losing our audience's interest, but big enough keep on going. Of course, we wasted a lot of time trying to find our new sound, but we did it. We succeeded, and Syd faded into the back of our minds. And he would be rendered to a distant shadow in the desert sands. I guess we never were content. There always had to be a hole to fill in my heart, from every time I made an expensive purchase and my guilt whittled away at my soul; _that could've gone to children in Africa, Roger_ , or something like that, or expressing my frustration with this world through music. But it only made dilapidated bridges burn. After we got fistfuls and carfuls (Nick) of our goal, _money_ , we had no purpose, really. We could've just retired at that point, but we felt we needed to prove we were worthy of this. So we clung together in fear we'd lose our hard-earned cash, lose our sense of direction, lose our practice in music.

_I've left my book_

_I've left my room_

We were rich and famous by this point, and it wasn't hard to find ourselves in the sex-drugs-and-rock-n'-roll scene. Behind the curtains, we were outrageous as any other super-band at the time, especially with the 'sex' part. You know. We've all had at least one divorce. I hated it, I hated it all. There was little to no intimacy, the groupies nipping at your heel like your aunt's swarm of chihuahuas, the screams of the crowd drowning out our music and making me go deaf, the immodesty and unfeeling of stadiums. We had been assimilated by the Machine. It promised us wealth, it promised us power, and sure, we got it, but it tore out our souls without telling us it was going to. I have nothing left but the tatters of my wide-eyed spirit, a flag once flown high, then yanked from my hands and shredded in front of my eyes. So I raised a new flag, that one of perpetual anger, hating the world, being called over-politicized when I really only wanted to spread the message: Someone needs to fix this. I couldn't, I'm a musician and not a politician or general, and before I could blink, I was old.

Oh, right. Early 1970. Half a century ago? Now that is devastating. So... I held the vinyl there, in my hands. I didn't want it to be true, but the man on the cover, the name there, _Syd Barrett,_ I couldn't deny it. A disorienting half-lit photo, with a striped floor, the shadows cast over his face making him look mad, alien. He was crouching, his hands touching the floor. This was Syd's new work, The Madcap Laughs. The name in itself was unsettling I wondered, would it be dissonant? Confused? Abstract? With reluctance, I took it out the sleeve, and out of its paper. I put it on the vinyl. I put the needle on. And I heard Terrapin. I didn't see anything wrong with that, it was a nice, gazing acoustic piece, with descriptive lyrics. But I knew how he was. He was madder than a tree of cuckoos, and it still made me prickle to know the truth behind this.

No Good Trying snapped me out of this tense peace, wailing guitar making it sound loopy. His voice was strangely flat, and it hit me- he slipped in seemingly innocuous lyrics that hurt in their truth.

_Because I understand that you're different from me._

Love You had a slightly breathless and manic energy to it, but it was an infectiously catchy tune. But it was infected with darkness. I couldn't shake the feeling. And No Man's Land... he started muttering something in the middle, I couldn't make it out at all... and other things in normal phrases. But I could pick out one thing for certain: _when I live, I die._

Dark Globe had to be the most startling. His voice cracked, he sounded... just... and he- he- _WOULDN'T YOU MISS ME? WOULDN'T YOU MISS ME AT ALL?_ I felt like he was standing in the room, yelling at me, accusing me of leaving him to die. And that's exactly how it felt like. It was a careless decision, just leaving him to pick up his own pieces. Except all these pieces were millions of fibreglass shards. Then, I could see him, dripping with blood, covered in glass needles he could never get out. I wanted to stop right there and then. But I didn't. All the songs had horribly dark undertones over a shattering psyche that tried desperately holding on to pieces fragmenting self. But one can only have so many arms, can only put in so much effort before they break. I heard things through the large cracks in the thing that was trying to keep itself together, the mental anguish and confusion thinly disguised by the straining voice and love-song premise. I realised I was on the last track of the album, 'Late Night'. He had a sad, sincere voice, and when I heard the first part of the chorus, it nearly made me cry. 'Inside me I feel, alone and unreal'. He tried to change its context with the other line, 'And the way you kiss will always be a very special thing to me.', but it was there, he said it.

Have any of the others bothered to consider any of this? I can't be so sure what they're thinking, but I wish it always wasn't so... superficial on their part. I wish our conversations could have a deeper, more thoughtful meaning to them... I just want to talk to Syd, the others are so cold and distant. But he's like a crocus that emerged too early, and was caught in the last frosts of the winter. Right now, it's deep in the rime of midnight, two midnight eyes, a void-like gaze. I can only pray that when the dawn breaks and the ice melts, it isn't dead.

"Syd," I address him. He doesn't look at me. It breaks my heart like a sloughing glacier. I change what I was going to say. Instead, I tell him, "Syd, I miss you."

Nothing indicates a response from the empty room, the closed book. I shouldn't feel like this, I shouldn't be crying, but I think of Grantchester Meadows, and realise it's a husk that barely rustles in the wind. I despise crying, but it doesn't stop. I feel useless, I can't help Syd.

October 24th

The year is 1977. The performance is coming to a close. The curtains are drawing, the spotlights dimming, the audience getting up and leaving, despite the fact that there are none of those things here. The four men on stage stand there in stillness and silence. There is no flying pig, no technicians, no roadies. _Only the lofty bassist has his instrument; albeit without any corresponding equipment. The drummer and keyboardist are standing around, not knowing what to do without being hidden behind their instruments. The guitarist looks like he dearly misses his Strat and plectrum._ They are exposed, like showroom dummies. _A chilly draft flows into the auditorium, making them prickle with gooseflesh._

"Uh..." _drones the keyboardist, whose voice looks to be self-muffled,_ "Shouldn't we...?" This is Richard William Wright, our mild-mannered 'quiet one'. He is facing internal conflict, because he is dead. _They all seem to have a realisation dawning on them._ _Slowly, they animate like machinations, which transcend into fluid human movements._

"Shouldn't we what?" _bites the bassist._ The angsty George Waters, who manages to trap himself in his own invention. They might've been puppets of time, but it looks like the puppeteer managed to tangle some strings. Some had to be cut, some knotted, some added. That is the process that is going on right now, and without their strings, the puppets begin to fall backwards. This... _Wheels in a projector, puts on a slideshow_... are their most recent incarnations. _We get to see the obvious 'recent incarnations'._

"Wait a minute..." _the keyboardist pauses._ "Are we in a..." _We are now in his perspective, because we are him, after all. Reconnect your senses, Wright._ "Are you Rod Serling?"

"Where?" _asks David, looking around. It gets strange and fuzzy. You feel less corporeal, and the whole thing begins to fall apart. Dave looks at you, shrugs and fades away, and you've never felt so isolated. A sound fades in, it's loud and screaming, and a sensation_ o _f_ b _e_ i _n_ g _b_ u _r_ i _e_ d. _Y_ o _u_ ' _r_ e _i_ n _i_ t _i_ a _l_ l _y_ t _e_ rr _i_ fi _e_ d, _b_ ut _t_ he _n_ w _e_ r _e_ al _i_ se it's the Bay Area Rapid Transit, the aforementioned place's tube system. I'm blanketed by a raincoat, sunglassed, it's raining. I find I fell asleep. The year- of course, this year, but yes, 1977. Old age has been smote, and we're stranded here now. I was stranded in the first place, being dead, and I don't want to see anyone else. _Animals_. Prodding around the body of work, we have finally hit a crucial vein. This is the first in the catalogue of 'classic' Floyd, in terms of the exact year, the last of our grace and authority. If nothing changes, tomorrow it'll be tripping over Wish You Were Here and Dark Side, and go falling down into the mud we worked so hard to claw out of. Obscured By Clouds. I wonder if that'll be mentally jarring. Yesterday, and the day before made, me feel depressed and useless, but I've improved today. There's an irritating feeling, though, of wanting to leave already. Perhaps it's the manifestation of our breakdown.

We did not think this through, in terms of going on a train, and for that matter, unattended. It's Roger, Nick, and I, with the producer taking the car with the other two. The reason? You can't fit six into a five-person car, especially if there's little room to spare at max capacity, and a tossing of other objectives. A- don't put Syd out in public. B- don't let Roger have another breakdown, that means separate him from Syd and give him emotional support (that being Nick). C- Dave and Roger, optimally, should not come into the same proximity. So, we sorted it out, donned our shades and bandannas, formless in oversized ponchos, and strutted into the Embarcadero. The security was relatively relaxed, meaning we wouldn't have to go through identification. The BART Police, as the security is called, gave us suspicious looks, but we got on to the train without issue.

The rain is driving outside, and behind the tint I can see views of a tunnel. That's it, we're in a tunnel, and the screeching noises and pressure is making my ears hurt.

"Where are we?" I shout to Nick. Those banshee scrapings are awful. He shrugs. "I feel we are underwater." He points to the BART map on the wall of the tube, framed in metal and panelled in glass. According to that, we're taking the yellow line, and we haven't had any stops yet- and the next is across the bay.

"Really?"

"Well, the pressure, the tunnel, and the fact that we have to get from point A to point B across a bay with no rail bridges... don't you think?"

"I didn't think of that," Not that I have time to consider it, I feel I can only do one thing, really. And that is worry, worry, worry. The train seems to deny speculation of its surroundings, and escapes into the light. It fills the subway, and brushes the shadows off grey shoulders, the driving rain streaking down the windows. It's rather foggy out; making what was two days ago a visibly dry landscape cool, shrouded, and mysterious. It doesn't last too long; the quiet view intercepted by the West Oakland station, our first stop. This seems to be major, and many people stream in and out. Morning traffic must be quite terrible, then, and the perpetual cycle of traffic on the tube and on the bridge will continue for eternity, as I see it. If my assumptions are true. Not much happens further, only shifting uncomfortably in the blue-cushioned seats and questioning the hygenics of this place. We were fortunate enough to grab seats, as there are many more standing than sitting. They're holding on for dear life by metal poles and handles protruding at seemingly random places, and lousy looped straps hanging from the ceiling.

The one thing I will take from this: this is terribly noisy. The thing perpetually makes two kinds of noise: a high ethereal moan, some kind of ambient, or like it's an axe grinding against a whetstone. This is agonising to listen to, worse than having to hear that I died. In this panic, I haven't had much time to contemplate deeply on factors such as life and death, one I know as a friend and the other.. the equivalent of being too drunk to remember who or what happened. But, the thoughts I've been having... inside, I feel alone and unreal. It stems from my own doubt of my existence, or the fact the others are treating me as if I don't exist. Are they denying it, too? Is it even denial, or awareness my mere being is a complex fabrication? I could see why, the mien of the rest is irregular, and we all know why. I'm rendered, in basis, without humanity, finding myself sampling former palettes of memory with dispassion and a lack of fondness. I don't care about her, or the hers, I don't care about them, I don't care if you're related, leave. Leave me alone, please, I have nothing to do with you. But the single thought of the chords of of my old synth kissing up to Dave's guitar leaves me with my eyes rolled up in the back of my head. I like performing, but not to that extent... I would never choose music over my personal life, but that's a strong _would_. With nothing left to lose but my life (again), death having shed procured non-musical relations and all financial gains and properties, I'm already prepared to work.

...But, all I can do is wring my hands, and hope I'm still in practice.

The train comes to yet another one of those insufferable screaming halts. As soon as Nick sees the backlit sign, black on white in plain font; **Concord** , he knows they've arrived at their destination. The name is rather ironic, as it seems their reality has a strong favour over chaos, confusion, and constant change. From one thing to the next, it can never stay stable enough for them to get a hold on their footing. Everything's running smoothly? _Good._ [Just kidding, we put sawdust in the transmission, have fun dying inside when you start hearing the gears grind.] People flood out like water, and Nick follows, just another drop in the water against the dam. Rain spatters all around, and Nick pulls up his raincoat's hood. Another plane to the dimension of anonymity, they could only be recognised by voice, and that would be through lingering suspicions. The Concord BART station is a concrete jungle of sorts, built with only function in mind. It's an eyesore of a cement conglomerate, an intense tangle of filthy-looking polished cement, with an accompanying brick parking lot that is a bit easier on the eyes. A logo, a blue **b** and a black **a** are intertwined with one another, short for the 'Bay Area' portion in the acronym for Bay Area Rapid Transit. Their platform parallels another, going the opposite direction. A whole other crowd of people wait on the other side for a whole different train. The air smells like cigarettes and ozone. The designated smoking areas aren't exactly contained, and their pungency seems to infiltrate this area. Tobacco smell in a public space... Nick can remember what it was like in the sixties and seventies, where everyone smoked everywhere, and only if you'd been living in the woods your whole life, would you realise how strong it is. Everyone couldn't smell it, because they were so used to it. It used to be 'cool', there used to be something attractive it. About the whole ritual of smoking: the snapping of the lighter, the barely audible sizzle of the flame against paper and dried plant, the brief moment to appreciate the simple beauty of the thread of smoke coming out of it. It was one of the only the unifications between the rebellious young and conservative old. Who knew _that_ would be carcinogenic? Well, nobody cared until they began hacking up blood in their forties and fifties, and the host of other problems that came with it. Nick takes the handrail and heads down the concrete stairs. This is the epitome of urban. Are those pigeons roosting in the eaves? Yes, that's strange. They get to the bottom of these stairs. A concrete cathedral looms above, so hideously blunt. There's no subtleties to it, just the tree-trunk columns and pitiful visitor's information area.

"What side are we waiting for Erzin on?" asks Rick, blind without any specifications.

"The left, I think," Nick replies. They migrate through the empty subway (actually, it's not 'sub', the concrete structure that houses the rails are far up) and to the carpool.

They're waiting... and waiting... and waiting. And waiting. Ahem, come on, Bob, you can make it. It brings Nick back to the times of the Wall, where Erzin would be perpetually late and receive a hail of criticism for his lack of punctuality. And again, Erzin is late. Nick can't blame him, though, there seems to be a lot of traffic, or the other thing; the fact that he's got a schizophrenic in his car. Nick wouldn't be too surprised if Syd forgot where he was and started panicking.

They wait.

The red Toyota shows up.

Bob rolls down the window. "Now," he says. "Who's going in the trunk?" A titter of chortles come from the extraneous three.

But he's dead serious.


	12. Turquoise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pink Floyd becomes aimless depressants in a hotel room waiting for Route 66 and a 2/4 time signature.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I understand:  
> A-this took over a week to write  
> B- it's half as long as some of my other chapters  
> C it's rather pointless  
> D- it's boring  
> E- it's mostly pointless filler  
> F- When things become routine the days become shorter  
> E- On god this chapter is nearly all thoughts
> 
> Also, nobody has noticed why the chapters are named the way they are? Frankly, I'm disappointed. Ok, here's what: if you figure it out, I'll write a short story for you. Anything you want, as long as it's not NSFW. Don't worry, I've waned my enthusiasms on AIDungeon (The reason it took me eight days to write this) and will get back to a normal schedule (?).

The soft wind brushes against the shuddering oaks, the quivering between leaves quiet, but not muted. The rain drifts down like snow, contrasting against the memory of harsher pluvials found in puddles they appear on. Barely seen, barely felt, but it creates a ghostly semi-opaque shroud around the city of Martinez. Where it's felt, it's felt as pins and needles on the faces of the drifters in this town. They are like apparitions in the haze, merely shadows, brief hallucinations. But their time as illusions fade, and you can discard your questioning of whether they are real or not, wondering if you have truly snapped, if there's something wrong with your eyes, brain, the food you ate or the drink you drank. They no longer are pins-and-needles of reality, you can't just remove the pressure of where your nerves are blocked. The memories, which were once an ever-so-fragile framework of a person, where if they hit their head hard enough, or if a neurological disorder began to take over their brain, or if they died (they could've at any time)... it would be lost forever. But now, being lost forever is being lost for what seems like forever. The tingling of the tittering precipitation, it offers corporeality that no man can resist. It tangoes with every nerve, graces skin with its cool touch, stares down unfeeling and drives it into the ground. It brings yesterday's fallen leaves and loose, dry dirt a new life, coaxing out their rustic aromas. A chorus of dripping plants, punished by the sun for an entire summer, picks up their foliage and pushes up towards the sky. The phantasms are fading, replaced by the senses, the thoughts, the emotion.

And I want to scream.

WHAT IS THIS?! I'm ALIVE, and only getting more so. There's no doubt about it my diagnosis, this is irreversible, this is TERMINAL. There's no cure to this; I can't just sit in quiet contemplation at life anymore, I'm panicking more than a sheep having watched its flockmate be devoured by a wolf! But what is there to it? I don't want to live with sixty-five years' worth of memories _and_ another sixty-five, very well likely _more_ than that. We're not young men, but somehow we are. I've never been so absolutely flummoxed by anything in my entire... life, or _lives_ , or something- See, I'm not even certain about that! Why this year to do it? Why this year to go to pieces? 1977? More like... irresolution! Agghh!

"Rick, are you okay?" asks Roger, who may or may have been staring the whole time (I think I was half-aware of it). I realise I'm nearly pulling my hair out.

"Yes, I'm fine," I get out of the self-strangulated position I'm in, and flatten the some of it that's still sticking up. It's not only Roger's stare, but multiple people feel inclined to optically probe me, concerned looks paraesthesisng my person. We stand around on the side of the road, on the edge of the Carquinez Strait. As I learned from Google Maps. Ezrin made a grave miscalculation, in that we could've a good amount of time without having to toss someone in the trunk, by continuing on the tube to the Concord/Martinez station instead of the Concord station. Not only was it illegal, but dangerous. Nick is slightly querulous, as he was the small deer-sized sacrifice we locked up in there. Ruffled and fazed, his sense of cars had betrayed him.

"So..." Ezrin begins, and notebook. "We're going to sort things out here. Here and right now."

Reddit.com, r/pinkfloyd: [Reddit did have a 'blog-style' update]

# I'm Freaked Out

_u/5moretime2_

Alright. So, let me get this straight. WHAT THE FRICK DID I JUST SEE?

But as Nathan Adler said, "But wait. I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me take you back to where it all began."

So, you know Pink Floyd got in the New York Times because they were wiped off the face of the earth, somehow (see the article). It's all very strange, you know. The last few pictures we saw of any of them were on Reddit. I'm here to supplant those 'final' images, but not in the way anyone would expect- not even myself. This post is the perpetuation of a conspiracy because its contents are conspiratorial. It's may not be Pink Floyd making a new album, or it may be. So: location: States Coffee, Martinez, California. The time? 11:47 am, Pacific Standard Time. I was sitting outside the stately brick chunk that is States Coffee, sipping on my good cappuccino, and then I saw some people. Just strangers, until I noticed Bob Ezrin. BOB EZRIN. Pink Floyd's producer on The Wall, AMLOR, and The Endless River. But mainly, I knew him as Alice Cooper's associate. So, I was like, 'This is Bob Ezrin!'. There was no mistaking it, my favourite producer was right there, and I revere him like a god. I was like, "Oh my God, I have to talk to him!" States was kind of crowded, though, so I decided to wait for him to go out. My eyes lay upon the others there, who were with the producer. There were two of them, and no, they weren't Pink Floyd, younger men. I couldn't see their faces, because they were obscured by bandannas and sunglasses, which was already kind of suspicious. _Someone_ forgot to double-tie their bandanna, subsequently, it fell off and to the ground. The process continues with reaching down. Glasses fall off.

Oops.

I saw something I never should've seen. I should've never taken the picture. But here it is:

_[Providing of an image of 1977's Nick Mason along with a totally not recognizable person]_

This is not photoshopped. Try examining it all you want, it's real.

This is disturbing. My original conspiracy? Pink Floyd's original members were kidnapped, cloned, and murdered, then the clones are doing something. Somehow, Bob Ezrin is in the middle of it all, their old producer. But I had this old post from a few days ago: [the link here is from the old airport post], pinned. It was the last known photo of any of them, and you know how people were confused by the weird trick of the light where Rog had grey hair. I fit the pieces together, and here it is.

By my conclusion, Pink Floyd are somehow aging backwards. It seems impossible, but Can some Redditors living in the Bay Area help me? We need to be on the lookout for these people. And Bob Ezrin.

But hey, I got his autograph afterwards, nevertheless feeling like Mark David Chapman.

[ _autograph picture_ ]

11:47 P.M. PST

It's late at night. Syd, who seemed to be an insomniac (I heard about how he had to take Mandrax to get to sleep), has already fallen asleep. On the floor, to be exact, but we're glad for him- I don't think he's gotten many hours in the past few days he's been alive. He's remarkably, quiescently torpid for someone who suffers near-continuous torture by his own brain. Bob is barely keeping awake in his supervision, he's had a tiring day running around trying to manage everything, and so are we. However, the other four of us, it seems that our ability to rest has evaded us. Over these past few days, we've gone to sleep considerably early for our stressing situation, which should've least caused some kind of sleeplessness, but we've always been able to pass out before the next day. But I feel the capillaries in my eyes starting the laborious trek from the optic nerves to my irises. It's the beginning of atrophication. I mean, I could stay up this long normally and not feel it, but... what exactly is going on? My body begs for sleep, but my brain is denying it... maybe a lack of melatonin, for whatever reason.

"I'm exhausted," sighs Roger, who once again startles Ezrin from dozing off. Everyone has red eyes, dark circles under their eyes, and irritability to some extent. Especially Roger, who in a restful state is irascible. He isn't afraid to parrot his own words over and over again, and it's becoming rather annoying.

"We know, Roger," I put my head in my hand, ears sore from his auto-synomynations. "You don't have to say it every... two seconds."

"Look who's nettled now," he gibes, and rubs his eyes. Putting his head in his hands, he groans in some unannounced exasperation. "So... fucking... tired." MY GOD, this man will never shut up. I don't think I've ever been so irritated, or dizzy, or had such a bad headache. I look at the clock. 11:50 P.M.. It feels like an entire hour has passed. What exactly is going on here? What is the procession of time, anyway, and what does it have to do with this? Everything, I suspect. Time has trifled with everything, it just can't do its job for _once_ , can't it? Why couldn't it keep me dead, keep the others temporally in-place? And when it wrecked the whole lot, it did it in the absolute most hellacious way possible? Why bring back Syd if he's not even right in the head, why continue to make him suffer, why ally with space to throw us into North America, why make my mind a crude framework of what it was? One may ask, 'How can you live life without love?', and another would point to me. I don't want to talk to any family, I feel like I've been a hermit of romance my entire life. Yet, children are staring expectantly at me, my elders at this point, and only continuing to be more so. There were trails of salaciousness in my wake, now there are trails of... dust. And socialism. No one real saw me except a producer, my coworkers are dead to this world, and I'm the closest person to truly dead. Everyone thinks it's a fact that I'm a deceased person. Yet, the reality of the situation is the light of the lamp and its illuminations, the ache in my opticals, the chlorine smells of the room, the separate quintuplet lurking within, and the most damning piece of evidence, me.

11:53. Another three minutes. Bob couldn't take it any longer and has simply passed out. Roger has fallen silent, at least, but his eyes are wide open, matching the trio of glassy orbs that accompany them. We are the last standing. I can see the fuzzing colours of their irises, all varying blues. But they have different kinds of minds behind them. As they say, "The eyes are windows to your soul." There's a variable of glints, intentions and motivations, of life experience. I'm no forensic psychologist, so I'm unable to tell what they're thinking, but I know what I am.

_What's going to happen when it reaches midnight?_

A certain anxiety comes about. 1972. 1972, what will happen then? The year seems to mildly affect reality, and I think that something important is going to happen, then. Being that pre-Dark Side, we were modest musicians with a respectable but mediocre discography, yet to make an influence... if ever. We had carved out a niche as an experimental band, post-Dark Side we tried to return to that, but we had already sunk our teeth into the prog genre, and were labelled as such. With... you know, Rush and Genesis. Household Objects was a studio failure, and we were already addicted to our concepts and genre we had touched on- or rather, the money it brought. Wish You Were Here had a statement, but it was Roger's. Of course, we missed Syd, and Roger had a bit of an aversion to money and burning hate of the establishment, but it was markedly more dispassioned than anything we had done before. Cracks began to show by Animals, and by The Wall, everything was falling apart at the seams. Not in the music, but socially, of course, it got glowing reviews and shelved another 'perfect' album into our discography. The Final Cut, even though I wasn't involved, I know it _was_ the final cut. Roger got trite trying to stuff the listener's ears full of another anti-war album of nearly the exact same premise, with even more control and new schlocky sax solos. Karma came to get him, and the critics turned on him like Actaeon's hounds. Meanwhile, I was in exile, which conveys memories through a distorted scope. It felt like a good idea at the time, taking life as it came, intoxicants, infidelity, whatever, but now almost everything about it feels tainted. It was a waste of time, a waste of life. I only see the setting itself as procuring any sort of green light.

11:56.

Nausea, slight distortions in vision. I feel something slipping away... when's the last time I went to bed this late? 2008, ha ha. Is this it? Is this why I'm feeling so horrid? It must be, because I feel like dripping wax, gone off the loop, something to do with pinatas... er...

What time is it?

11:57, apparently. How did a minute pass that fast? Time wounds all heals, as they say. Rip, tearing open... heals, whatever that is. Heals... heals... HEALS...

God, I'm going mad. The others seem equally disturbed, I can see the windows to their souls shattering as their minds fracture. What is going to happen?

11:58. Time is racing, watch the analogue timer, the sands, the minutes fall, I'm a machine, I'M A MACHINE. How much are five years? Many of them, apparently, but I don't think I can measure or conceptualise... what is it again? What's the word? Please tell me. I will interrogate you until my informative is-

What's the number? 1-1-[colon]-5-9. Can... I... The.... seconds... Help. Something's breaking. I'm a machine, some gears have slipped out of place- I- I- I'm stuttering in my own mind?! ACK. That hurts. You're not going to... life is a box of questions now. Where am I? What's happening to me?

55...56.. what are these numbers for?- 57....58....59-

-October 25th, 12 AM (sharp) PST

(these happen simultaneously)

_"A- AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA B- AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA C- AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA D- AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA"_

A chorus of screams and confusingly repulsive noises (think slithering and cracking) startles Bob awake. He can only process it as some kind of nightmare, and nearly jumps out of the chair. Light and negative images stab at his eyes as they snap open, and finds that he's fallen asleep in the wrong hotel room. He draws in the scene, reeling in the shuddering alarm that was caused by this. In grossly contorted positions on the beds and floor are the four men who... who have what? What's even happening here? Waters is collapsed on the floor, perfectly folded in half on his side, with his hands clawed like eagle talons. He's twitching in a manner reminiscent of a dying marine invertebrate. Wright is down in a crescent shape, his upper half on the bed and his lower half jelly-kneed and sliding down. Mason has just managed to catch himself, frozen in the middle of clawing at a painful-looking expression. Gilmour... well, what's he even doing? Indescribable gymnastics. Nick begins to thaw, slowly animating, and Bob suddenly notices what's different. How strange. 1977 has become some year.

"What year now?" he asks Nick, who looks over to Bob.

"That... was... horrible," he whispers in a traumatized voice, laggardly moving as if he were an alien who just possessed a man for the first time. He clears his throat, and informs Bob, "1972." Bob speculates it has something to do with the fact they're not sleep-adjusted to the year. Was keeping them awake a purposeful move, or was it a byproduct because this year is important, whether through the means of the people themselves or the 'external factors' (aka the temporal event itself). 1972...1972... what was Pink Floyd doing then?

Well... not _Dark Side of the Moon,_ that's for sure. Huh, that's right. They had musically regressed to their experimental phase, but a guiding light was shone forth with _Echoes._ Yet, they didn't take the opportunity in 1972, and instead had a confused final scream of an album, _Obscured By Clouds_. It was good, but not as good as the two albums it was wedged in between. Meddle had a charm in its individual folky songs and the dramatic ostinato bass of _One of These Days_ , not to mention the 24-minute epic at the end. It had a structured theme, and reflected the direction the band was going in far more than the content 1972 provided. As something constantly evolving, 1972 was a step backwards, or a stall. The other thing now is that at this time, Pink Floyd haven't broken through yet to the mass market with Dark Side _._ Maybe real-life events are going to revolve around this premise, maybe there'll be more psychological manipulation due to the era. Here we have Pink Floyd, still with their monetary common goal intact. They're a slow-growing band, building up their reputation bit by bit, clawing forward up the cliff of fame with each album they make, just enough to live off a normal salary and make the next piece of material. But there's more than that; there's uncertainty. With no 'special spark' and refusal of the press, they're building their empire entirely out of their music, a very merituitous one. There's no windmill guitars or stage dives or overtly-contrived outrage, they can't really handle that. Just " _ordinary men"_ as good musicians.

But they still have their uncertainties. There's a fear of getting buried alive by remaining underground for too long, lost in the swathes of musical acts that never made it big. So they tried, and tried, and tried. Their seventh album got them out, and the experimentation (meddling, haha) was left in the dust as they found their sound. Attempting their original virtues and values only proved too difficult for such a feat as Dark Side. The band was coming apart, they wanted money and so they got it. And then they thought, 'What now? We made one of the greatest albums of all time, how do we top that?'. Attempting to re-integrate true experimentation that could've been on par with the feat of Dark Side. Bob could see the direction they were trying to head, in that they would create albums that were drastically different from each other but linked by their distinctive sound (as they'd done before, but even more contrasting).

That idea was thrown into the trash as they made another album with a similar structure to _Dark Side_ , another... bout of sonic existentialism. When the consumers did as they were geared to, they consumed this piece of work, the band realized: this is the way to go. They could only really continue on for two other albums with this message, as several different factors slogged progression. They wanted to spend time with their families and relish in their monetary gain, like any normal man given that kind of wealth. Waters became more and more convinced that he was responsible for everything, as his concepts gave the music a meaningful edge, but as his solo career would say otherwise, nope. The lyrics became more rough and angular with Waters refusing sanding and polish from Wright, who was a decent songwriter in himself, and even some suggestions from Gilmour (who has been called by Roger and himself not being able to write for life). Or, it was the fact they were too sharp to touch upon, or it was too disinteresting, or the others, as musicians as their main contribution, were too busy in that part. Roger was left to fester in his own thoughts and opinions, and the amount of control exerted on his part could effectively gauge how the band were doing, socially. Animals was half-Gilmour in his moodiest stage presence (a stone-faced and foreboding-looking guitarist who stood inhumanly still as he slung out his aggressive styles), it could be seen in the complex values of the music. The Wall is musically fractured, but has cohesive songs that break out of the stagger of half-writes and filler. The Final Cut... well, basically a Roger Waters solo album, with an unforgivable swarm of session musicians creating a wailing patchwork quilt of... questionable quality.

Wow, what a measure and a breath of a ramble! _I'm ready to play Led Zeppelin at this point._

So here they are, exposed in all their weakness, and it's putting a vise on Bob's mind. Moments like these... they tend to be awkward, mostly because Bob isn't suited to watching people pass out from contortions of agony. Mason seems to be the only one awake by this point, looking over his hands in horror like he's just murdered someone.

"Are you okay?" he has to ask, and Nick gives him a graciously desperate look, _Save me from myself, please_.

9:05 A.M. PST

A black-and-white photograph. To think it's half a century old is impossible; the temporally universal expressiveness of the four men on there would indicate otherwise. Photographs really do take one to the past, in any sort of situation it'd be difficult not to imagine it as the present. But to think their youth, change, radicality, or even their life, is gone, the era has already ended, is a very sobering and saddening thing. People change drastically, but never deviate from their core baseline, which could be oppressed or exaggerated, but the original still shows underneath. Imagine... strip those layers down and take a close look. What are one's fundamentals? What happens when you unravel the spool to reveal the bobbin underneath? Well, of course, you see what makes them tick.

Oh, this is getting to me. 1972. The instant it hit twelve, something was snatched with the tip of the hat, snagged and left thrashing by October 25th. It's my adamance. Suddenly, I feel as if the bowl has turned into a sieve, situation of water unable to be held by my new, inferior kitchenware. Or was it that I dropped the bowl, and it shattered into a million pieces? I'm not sure about that, either. I can't feel true corporeality to this situation at all. Glass has reverted into sand. Glass can break if you're not careful, but sand... sand just gets everywhere, on the floor, in your clothes, hair, eyes, food... Essentially, all feels wrong. I mean, it was dozens of degrees off before, but now I can't even measure it. Like... like a triple and a half of a circle or something. Scalene triangles, a mismatch. I could be sorting this out better, but clarity decided to evade me, and left me here percolating in my own flummoxation.

It's gone to pieces. Ezrin decided to see news related to the band, and did he get it:

# Pink Floyd's Accumulated Monetary Value Nearly Demolished

So, that is it. Of course, products will continue to sell, but nobody's going to significantly financially invest. And does anyone really buy physical formats of music anymore? Property as well. I guess you could say that the only thing in my possession now is the stuff I brought with me. Including the tarry black electric bass, case gleaming smugly in the corner. _Hah. I escaped,_ it seems to be saying. It feels tainted, I don't think I'll touch it until I absolutely have to. A relic of the past, really only a month or so ago, but I'm struggling to differentiate this from normalcy. The last time I wasn't running around in a paranoid hurry feels like years ago, as if I've been doing this forever. But nothing good comes with this defeated acceptance, reticence poking at my side, obfuscation prodding at my brain. I bet it's the universe's ire and hatred; _Obscured By Clouds_ , GET IT, WATERS?!

We only have two days left. 1971, then 1966. That's it. It's difficult to grasp, life was so drastically different before this all started. Imagine this: A bottle is broken and tossed into the sea. The pieces part, and for dozens of years are tossed around the waves, eroded by the sand and water. Their edges are worn away, their transparency frosted over, perfect smoothness becoming rough and pitted. They no longer join, are no longer part of something bigger, and essentially become an aesthetically pleasing rock. These pieces of sea glass are fated to wash up on the shore one day, inevitably going to be found by the expert beachcomber Death, whose job is to gather them up by the masses. They're taken from the beach, becoming bits of jewellery, or inlays, or something like that. Get strung up on a necklace, really a graveyard.

Alright, so one day, the guy who broke the bottle steals some pieces from Death, and comes back to this beach while they aren't around. Now, he's looking for sea glass for no apparent reason, maybe not even to himself. By pure coincidence, he finds the exact pieces, and the sick fuck decides, 'Why don't I take these bits, and... and polish 'em up, you know?' So, he takes out his... saw or jewellery knife, whatever, and he cuts them just like that! Thirty years, forty years, fifty years' worth of oceanic toiling sheared off in a matter of minutes! He makes some wrong cuts- 'Aw, fuck', and 'Shit,'- and everything is ruined. Whatever, he decides, because then, he decides to cut the prolix and just... inarticulately slap on some duct tape to it all... you know. And guess what? He's going to sell it as a product.

Yes, we can't just throw our hands up in the air and give up on life. We're going the brutal route, that being _straight back to work. You don't deserve retirement if you're this young (again)._ Despite our differences, the change is too halting and abrupt- I mean, if dead people are spontaneously resurrected, those that were integral to reformation, how could you not? And also, the fact that everyone here is nonexistent. Except for Ezrin, who is our only anchor to reality and the only one sane enough to manage the feat. He's relatively unfazed by our situation... I have no idea why he's doing this on his own free will. Maybe it's because we're _the_ Pink Floyd, and Ezrin believes if we try hard enough, we can return to normal... not that normal, that would be too ridiculous to consider.

I don't know how to manage all the thoughts in my head. I think too much these days, especially with the advent of... _him_. He's just sitting in the corner, glassy-eyed and silent, but there are those brief intervals of lucidity. When I look behind those eyes in those moments, I see something behind them. Not a null space between vision and cogitation, but rather, as it should be, windows to the soul.

"You know," says Rick, "That town we were briefly at, Concord, Dave Brubeck was born there."

"Who's that?" asks Parisian David.

"Dave Brubeck? He did Take Five," Rick replies.

"...And, what's that?"

"One of the most famous jazz songs... you'll know it when you hear it:" Rick mimics the sax line, da-da-da-Da-DA-da-da-da-da-Da-da-da... that one. Even though Wright's singing is rather comedic, it makes something in my mind go off. What is it that makes me feel slightly different?.... Oh, that's right. Now I realise I haven't listened to music for so long, that I really forgot it existed at all. Not in the literal sense, but as a concept. Something to create to make one feel, to hear to make yourself feel. Not only to be a producer, but also a consumer every once in a while. I felt something while listening to Syd's work. It was... unconstrained terror, unbridled sorrow, _madness_. It felt all like standing in the room on the album cover, the only company dust and guitars. Windows and doors closed, curtains drawn, sallow yellow light making everything waxy and derealised. After listening, I treated it like poison, avoided it like the plague- it made me physically sick. But one day, curiosity got the better of me, and I listened to it again. As expected, the same thing happened... and the cycle continued. The album was like a hard drug that had a drawn-out addiction, deciding to spring upon you the moment you felt better. It was haunted, cursed...

Nobody's talked much today. I feel rather ill, a headache of some kind thrashing at my brain. I understand these are physiological symptoms of something equally physiological, but I'm not sure what. Every conversation is aurally and mentally strident, therefore creating a far-and-few-between atmosphere.

The time moves so slowly...

This does not seem to be going well at all. I just feel... quite hopeless. There's a gap between my pointer and middle finger wanting to be filled. But obviously, I'm resolving... not to do that. Of course, because I died because of it! Why would I even consider that?! Outrageous, outrageous. I don't think I ever stopped smoking, not at least until I had to if I wanted to live. The cigarettes you'd see snuffed out in the ashtray on the piano sometimes accrued to the point of looking like a sea urchin. My personal garden of compound flowers, harbingers of early death. I should really stop now, where I haven't gone down the long and dark spiral (again). It was that that made me hop the twig so early, wasted a longer life for a fix a ten thousand too many. Death was rather anticlimactic: Diagnosed, tried everything, given a terminal case, dying, and nothing. And now this. This entire situation is terminal, causing me to feel existential. Or it may just be the kicking in of my good old friend, the nicotine addiction.

...Maybe, well, likely, both.

Time seems to stretch out. It's really all pointless, isn't it? The parameters we've set on ourselves are excruciatingly restricting. Don't go out. If you have to, don't go out alone, and then you have to mask yourselves. Secure your disguise (Ahem, Nick). Don't talk to anyone. Don't look at anyone. Don't make yourselves noticed. Leave Bob to explain everything. Deflect any questions. Do not haphazardly solve a situation. Leave any vicinity playing music correlated with the band.

All of that jazz. Meanwhile, we're filling in the time by writing. Songwriting, lyric writing. Yes, we're in the middle of this crisis, yet there is work to be done on our part. Ezrin is scrambling around, trying to find equipment and studios and whatever, and we should feel obligated to do something. It's difficult without an instrument around, and no, I can't read music, which makes it worse. But even Syd is lucid enough to write, pages and pages of... illegibleness. He seems to know what's on them, though, I'll give it that. As of now, a strange thing has happened. I don't know exactly what it is, but he seems to have forgotten he was writing... and it's become a drawing. Madly focused on it, it begins as a loose, sparse scribble, and builds up layers of shade. The shade becomes legible shapes, and I realise what it is...

People standing around, aimless, in a field. Five of them, facing different directions, stiff and showing no signs of movement. Syd continues drawing, laying over more and more lines, or blades of grass. It looks as if they're growing while time passes, the people still, the grass up to their knees, their waists, their chests, shoulders, neck...

Syd pauses. He turns his head around, eyes slowly coming to meet mine. They bore into my soul, and when fully interlocked, he says,

"That's all of us, you know."

He resumes on his work, and continues to draw the grass up our faces and over our heads. Then, it swallows the sky, until all that there is is an incessant number of black pen lines, with the faint traces of what there was underneath. Some men and sparse writing.

October 25th

1971\. Dread. More smoking problems. Syd is complaining about the lack of cigarettes, and internally, everyone else is thinking it too. Pages are scattered around the room. Everyone's having problems. But does it matter anymore? Syd may be in his right mind by tomorrow. I want this day to be over with already. What's the point of being in 1971? I don't care if it means I'm five years younger. Syd may be in a right state of mind by tomorrow. October 25th? More like a slog of nicotine-defuelled misery. I can't think straight. The minutes feel like hours. I feel like I need to do something, but I can't tell what that is. When I write, I get on it for a few seconds, then lose all context of what I'm doing. This really does feel like withdrawal, doesn't it? But it doesn't amount to anything, I don't think, because it'll just reset itself.

By tomorrow, everything will begin to re-weave itself, and one can finally have the chance to treat their wounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Time stops, un peu trop tôt pour le goût de Roger...


	13. Foundry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ta-da! Shiny and all polished, like a proper chapter it should be! I've been struck by inspiration like a flash of lightning! It feels great to know what you're going to do next. After getting myself disciplined, I decided to stack and shuffle my cards. If you had the unfortunacy of reading this chapter in its hideous infantile stages, I do encourage a re-read. After all, I did promise I would extend it three times its normal length. Bon appetit, you literary creatures.

October 26th

Here it is. Here is the day of finality. Where the guillotine falls, when the bell tolls, why the rooster crows. The long night is over...

...and the dawn breaks.

1966.

It's finally over. We're finally done with. And I can't mourn what I left behind. Maybe instead, I should drift off into eternal slumber, or awake from this nightmare. Neither I am able to do. _Just keep your eyes closed, I don't think we would have the ability to face what is out there. Lay still... don't show signs of life._

Apprehension and fear creep up my limbs. It shouldn't have to be like this. I shouldn't be a coward about this, I should get up and confront it. But I won't- I can't. Paralysis takes a hold that I want to relieve of, but simultaneously need. The aural vacuum is just barely averted, a ringing hiss thinly suspended over the gaping maw of silence. Unwanted carmine penetrates the translucence of my eyelids. I don't feel a stirring mien anywhere, the lack of another conscious brain is... peaceful, almost. In the drifting emptiness of a solitary Sunday morning. Here am I, a bird in the eye of a hurricane. This is Death itself, standing over me in rays of red resplendence. We are nothing. 

And slowly, I begin to hear a sound... the pattering of rain. It phases in with the cold, and the rose fades, replaced by shades of grey. I can imagine the clouds storming in, far above, and the haze of the fog, down below, with it. An inviolable wall of quietus from the ground to the sky, in which every man should display his terror. San Francisco, a city like no other. One that I absolutely despise already. One with a spireish pyramid that radiates egregiousness, an architectural malevolence. I should scoff at its impudence and affronting nature, but it's too horrific to comprehend. What lies behind those blackened windows and ivory framework is a mystery to me, except for the fact it's positively oozing turpitude. I understand that I shouldn't be getting so ruffled and spooked over such a tower, it's just there. It just reminds me of some vague... thing. Thing is a vague word, in a vague place, at a vague time on a Sunday in October. Notably, Sunday the 26th. 

Today is 1966. And it should be a Wednesday, not a Sunday. Or maybe another day, I'm not too sure. I know it's October 26th, though. Today is not 1966. 

Today is... what is it?

Today is a matter of life death. Should I rise from my shallow grave? I could have at any time, but here I lie, dead. I _should_ feel obligated to do so, as death isn't a luxury at all, just endless, endless... end. Sleep is a sampler of being deceased. I don't think I've tried the full thing... I was anticipating the arrival of my product, but it seems it has been misrouted. The more I contemplate this, the more I realise that the full trial of death doesn't seem so appetising anymore. I think I'll just wait. Until then, I desire a preoccupation, that would be to get awake and get on with my life _... I think you're forgetting something, Roger._ Yes, right, that being- oh.

It was inevitable, anyway. I can't stop something set into motion like this. I take a crack at it, the shutters to my opticals rived. I feel the photoviolence with dispassion, soon which dwindles into little more than a burn. Adjusting to the light, it is revealed. All it is is a pale, sickly thing that emits a frail imitation of refulgence (much like myself). How sad. It seems I have fallen asleep at the desk. The pen teeters anteriorly, loosely trapped between the triconjunction of my thumb, index and middle fingers, the paper waxy and blemished by the ink of my writings. My head uncomfortably rests on my forearm, and the first thing I am faced with is my opposite arm. It takes up most of my focused view, and my periphery doesn't offer much more, that being a plain of words against white and a sky of dust-coloured plaster walls. I'm still here, unfortunately. I have no recollection as to when I decided to fall asleep last night. I likely passed out at some appreciatively 'early' hour, absorbed in creating... these papers I'm looking at, without a clue as to what I did. I can't catch a word from the angle I'm at, but it seems the words on one page are written rather large.

After a while of idling in this position, I decide to sit up. It's a bit of a wrench, and the blood rushes from my head as I look down at the papers strewn across the desk. Obviously, the first thing that attracts my attention is not the multitude of papers with small writing, but the poster-sign with angry scrawl on it:

_Četli jste řádky nesprávně._

_Připravte se na velké zklamání._

_Měli jste si všimnout,_

_že se počítal také časový podpis._

I conclude I did something ungodly last night to get to the point of writing in a different language. I twist in the chair, wincing slightly at the soreness of being in a contorted position all night, and witness the stately chaos that lay about. Men are splayed across the room, comparable to the aftermath of flung bodies in an explosion. As a collective, they all look wan and lifeless in the strange light. It's not a naturalistic appearance of death, rather doll-like, seeming to be deliberately arranged in the manner of mannequins. What an unsettling image to behold. It's difficult to locate the notion that they will eventually stir and animate, being as they're people, but it is the truth. This moment of my cloistered consciousness will be lunged at by the conglomeration of thought unto individual awareness, which I shall make no attempt to parry. But my pre-riposte is to think harder, the dying breaths of loneliness. And so, the metaphorical sun sets as the real one rises. I hear it, I hear movements. But I've looked back at the foreign language writing. I feel as if it's supposed to be telling me something, that something belies all of this. Shouldn't I feel hopeful? Despairingly happy? I don't. My lack of enthusiasm procures a concern. Considering the mental changes that accompany our progression backwards, Syd should be... different, for the better. It should be a significant improvement, but I can't bring myself to revel in the excitement. In fact, there is no excitement to it, just an emptiness as null as this room. It's not even caused by the dread that Syd may still be the same. Honestly, I'm not certain what it is. Just... nothing. I feel nothing. 

So, these dolls, or puppets, or men, slowly begin to twitch, breathe, writhe, loose thoughts ricocheting in their brains like stray bullets. Realising their terribly positioned situations (neck bent at a ninety-degree angle in a V position as their legs head perfectly vertical, spine twisted halfway over, a dead corpse in a corner, wrung-out cat, et cetera), they strive to articulate themselves for the waking hours. I don't watch this, all I see is the diacritics writ stressed on the sheet of paper. This looks rather Polish, or a Slavic language some-other. I hear the slow thawing of night-frozen reptiles, stretching out their stiff talons, fanning out their scales.

It's all very quiet... until I hear true movement. The bold, suggestive noise, that of a shoulder brushing against a wall or a similar action, marks the authorisation of reality. A gradual chorus of this builds a structure of separate lucidity. So, this is it. Nearly a month after the departure of a normal life, here we are, at the ineluctable destination. The discord of this situation leads me to believe that things can only get better from here... 

obviously not. There are a multitude of ways this could get worse, and if it does, I swear, I'm going to go mad.

Light footsteps.

"Roger? Are you awake?" The whispers of Nick are sibilant in my unadjusted ears, but it processes. I stop blankly staring at the Slavic antichirography, and turn around in my chair (again). Gathering my focus, I concentrate it into making eye contact with the new entity that I have to interact with. Nick looks sluggishly startled that I'm actually awake, but as the adverb mentioned, he quickly gets over it.

"Yes," I reply, my own voice also strident to my ears, combined with the sensational equivalent in my throat.

"Ah," he nods, and we spend a significant amount of time staring down each other. When we halt our visual interlocking, I feel much more inclined to observe things other than the paper. Syd is in the dark corner over there. Rick looks to be awake, but only in the sense that he's adjusting himself out of a grossly deformed pose. David ended curled up on the floor, good for him. Ezrin is absent, must've gone somewhere.

A few minutes is all it takes to kick into half-gear. Everyone is dazedly saying 'good morning' in the reluctantly lightening darkness, it's only Syd who doesn't move. This is when I should be worried, But I don't think I'll disturb him.

But what if he's still the dead-eyed madman that scared me so much? With each second that passes, the probability of a _yes_ to that question increases. We don't have the luxury of witnessing each other in an exposed fashion, maybe it's the aversion perpetuated by the visual horrors of '66. In the retrospect that it's the killing blow, and everyone refuses to see it until we absolutely have to. This leads to increasing denial that this ever happened, and then mental screaming in confusion. But the sun continues to claw up into the sky behind the white walls of weather, the earth keeps rotating, the insufferable finches keep on singing their trite song, despite the fact that it's the end of the world. Gradually, our eyes are exposed to more and more atrocities of the backwash of everything. Something seems off. It's not the obvious fact, but something a bit more subtle. I'm not sure how a library of appearances throughout the years became available to my memory, but it states this does not appear to be 1966. No matter how hard I try, I can't feel the spirit of that year. Something lounges weightily on, something stabs into, something screams inside my conscience.

It madly tells me, _this is all wrong, it was all wrong._ And as the room blossoms into full illumination, I can see what's off.

I can say for certain it's not 1966. And for the man in the corner, I believe he is still a box of broken springs.

The year is 1968.

October 26th, 1968. 

Also known as a Saturday. Still not a Sunday, so it doesn't even provide symbolic compensation, and it was one of the worst years of my life. I thought Syd's deterioration might've been a temporary thing, but when it overstayed its welcome thousands of hours too many, it began to sink in: he would possibly never come back from the brink, that he had a case of chronic psychosis. Syd, the bright-eyed artist who fit like a charm into the British psychedelic movement, splitting guitar lighting the way for many acts. Syd, with spectacular linocuts and dreamy poetry, who made all the girls swoon at his feet. Syd, constantly invaded upon and swarmed by a mob, people who only wanted him because he was famous. Syd, who was willing to turn on, tune in, and drop out, willing to do it so many times that the mob knew.

I heard about this from Storm: At some times, Syd was sharing his apartment with upwards of five other people (he couldn't say no when they asked, that was too harsh for him [and often, his house would be so infested with people, that he had to lock himself up in his room {and he'd be continuously tormented by hordes of fangirls banging on his door and screaming every hour of the day like a microcosm of Beatlemania}]), they slipped acid in his coffee... day after day after day, keeping his brain perpetually fried, and he was too inebriated by it to notice. By the end of it all (a horrid fifteen days, I think), Syd's psyche had been absolutely obliterated. When he shuffled into the studio and looked at me with extinguished, purposeless eyes, I knew he was on something, at best. But when the vacant gaze's occupancy continued, when all I knew was those black holes lodging in his eyes, it was realised: this was permanent. Something terrible and irreversible had been done to my best friend (I'm not sure if the feeling was mutual... Syd had a lot of friends [and I didn't]), a combination of things he wasn't prepared for had made him wither into dust.

In early '68, when we were briefly a quintet, I'd see Syd often with a disdainful look on his face. And with the thickening lines of kohl around his eyes, he really did begin to look like a madman, something Syd Barrett himself of less than a year ago would have trouble recognising. When one of these looks happened to intersect with my ocular roving, I felt like a part of me died. I felt every ounce of despair and (likely unintended) hatred in them, and the vast pockets of emptiness in between. Was it fortunate that he usually didn't make eye contact with me?

"It's not 1966," I say aloud, orienting the pen in my hand in a tight, stiff grip. Where is a new sheet of paper? I sift through some papers and stack them, and pawn a blank.

"What do you mean?" asks the voice of Nick. I feel everyone's looks on me, but I'm looking at the white rectangle under my hand.

"I have observed it," I sigh. "Just... go look at each other. There are significant differentiations." Not really, except for the thing in the corner, who though in full light, casts a shadow over everything. I wish this pen was a pencil... then I could give myself the satisfaction of hearing wood snap. And then, I'd like to swivel around and throw the pieces into the wall (or at David [...no, I should reconsider that thought]). Instead, my only option of a writing utensil is this motel-branded plastic ballpoint pen, much like how I'm burdened with this year of terrible luck. There's nothing to do but-

\-----

I hear a kind of violent scribbling. It sounds like simultaneous abuse of pen and paper, even small tearing sounds. The aura of infuriation is felt hotly, radiating sharply in a concentrated way. A beast that wants to maim and kill, but is relegated to a cage that barely accommodates its size. A particular discomfort from being in the vicinity of this scarcely contained rage is what obliges me to open my eyes. Just a bit, as the searing light stabs almost as much as the seething anger. As the pain is diluted by adjustment, I can venture further, and slowly find myself coming upon a scene. A bluish glow creeps in from the veiled curtains, making the subjects of the setting look pallid and wan. I can see their slight movements that tell me it's... somehow real. The nervous shifting, eyes darting like hummingbirds, and now one is walking around. But it's not that, for I lay my eyes upon the presence of violence that awoke me- Ah. I recognise them all now. The old band I used to be in, Pink Floyd, and Roger is the choleric one here.

I think I'm thinking... rather clearly, comparative to yesterday. If I can maintain a linear thought process for _this_ long, who knows what else is in capability?

I decide to get up, the corner being an uncomfortable place to shrivel up for a night. A procession of observing the touchy shuffling between the Pink Floyd and standing up with the walls as support proceed. I feel chilled to my bones, body warmth not substantiating for a night of deformed torpor, and accordingly cross my arms.

"Good morning," I tell them, shivering.

It pierces through the silence, and the others slowly turn to look. As if I just appeared out of nowhere, brief looks of surprise overtake their faces, but quickly disappear.

"Morning, Syd," says Nick, sounding confused. Roger's anger is doused, and he's giving me bewilderment. I think I forgot exactly what I was doing here, but filled sheets of paper and a pen that lay on the floor around me gift some context. And there's David Gilmour over there, my old friend and newer guitarist for the band. So is Rick, who looks exhausted.

Did I just have an incredibly long dream? As of now, I'm befuddled. Have I gone that wrong in the head?

"Where are we?" I ask.

"San Francisco," supplies Nick. Looking around, I observe the suspicious circumstances: we're all passed out in the same room, there's an odd black rectangular thing propped up on a stand on the dresser, and a... is that telling the time there? The black panel reads 7:34 in neon red segments. This must be a dream, or there are holes in my memory to fill. I'm definitely not remembering something here.

"What's today?"

"October. Saturday. Uh, the twenty-sixth," is the mixed order of time given. After assembling this into a more coherent structure, I nod to confirm my comprehension. "I'd be inclined to ask, what's the year?"

He tells me the year, in a serious tone.

"Oh." I really need more information, but don't pry. I don't want to show any kind of amnesia, that would just make the others worried.

"So... how are you feeling?" inquires Nick.

"Fine," I reply. We've caught on to a semblance conversation, I suppose, but I'm not sure it'll go further from here. The room drifts into silence again.

This is very strange, and the long stretches of nothing make me realise we all don't have very much in common.

"I'm not sure what all this tension is for," I stall. The others shrug in indecisiveness.

We really don't know what to do.

\------

7:55 A.M., PST

Bob guesses that Pink Floyd should be awake by now, and his assumptions are proven correct when he walks in. He begins to wonder if he's booking the parallel room for nothing, as this is another one of those days where they're trapped in their motel concentration camp. The place had descended into a wild mess of papers last night, which are now begrudgingly stacked here and there. To Bob's surprise, Barrett looks actually... clean-cut aware, and is conversating with the others. Waters looks tortuously tight-wound. Bob hasn't seen that kind of tension in a person ever. Even if you assembled a collective of Cold War-paranoids and conspiracy theorists, the rangy man in the office chair would top their combined tautnesses. And it's an office chair, for God's sake! It's the least stiff kind of seating without devolving into the category of frameless chairs!

"...Oh, hello, Bob," greets Nick.

"Uh, hi," replies Bob. He suddenly senses he's less relevant, and takes a lean on the wall to silently observe the band. Of course, they're looking at him, but he's looking back.

"Who are you?" Barrett asks, eyes floating over Bob in a lazy gaze.

"He was our producer for some time," fills in David. "From '79 to 2014." Syd nods, and Bob is subjected to the 'black hole' stare. Maybe that was an exaggeration, because his eyes definitely have substance to them. That substance is passive, however. Maybe that's what makes them so empty.

\--

Today was the first day that I realised it's real. In a genuine sense. Every sensation is sharp and clear as a shard of glass. I can't deny the fact... it feels so good to just be alive. Watching paint dry would have me trembling in excitement. Yet, the pits of blackness stretch those far and few between over a vast, dry landscape of misery. But speculating the fact of eternity as absolutely nothing, this is beyond words better.

I hate it, still. This is going to take months to get off the ground. Even if Bob rushes it, how and where could one be re-established into society? Our situation is being suspected in the papers already, but in the wrong way, which supposedly is beneficial. We have maintained a cover comparable to trying to conceal oneself with some old, dusty tulle in a conspicuous shade of neon green. Where we are now, it's still a liminal phase. Patience is a virtue, I suppose. And so, without much to do, I stare at the wall.

I think, somehow, this day is supposed to mean more than what it feels like it does, but ultimately, I feel it's just a stall. We'll just have to hold out... one or two more days, maybe, and... perhaps things will come together.

October 27th

When I wake up, I realise something is terribly wrong. It feels exactly like the day where _it_ had put a cold, clawed hand on my shoulder. But in the... completely opposite context. As if time _hasn't_ gone backwards. Or a great deal forwards, for that matter. The rush has reduced to a trickle, the seconds dripping down my face in burning, grating drops.

So this is what it feels like. Normal time, I tell myself as I stare in the mirror. I of the literal yesterday stares back, and myself of fifty-something (Or if one gauges it proportional to my expiration, forty) years ago. A creature unfamiliar, something that should've been left in the domains of memories and old photographs. Yet here he is, frowning back. I believe I had gotten so used to the continuous changes, that it feels alien to _not_ be different each day that passes.

I can observe that Roger has considered this a national tragedy. Fervently scouring the note from the aeroplane psychic, he deducted that he had made a grave miscalculation: we were preoordinated to stop at 1968.

_Soon, we'll stop on Route 66, with the leading into conducting for 2/4 time as well._

66, one-two... sixty-eight. 

" _Damn you,_ " Roger had memorably growled. 

Syd is okay. It's not okay as in optimal, as he barely talks, and his short-term memory is astonishingly transient at times. He's using up all the paper, dark clouds of scribbles lying scattered in a black-and-white pile around his person in the corner. Just barely akin to the Barrett of 1968, even. My guess is that, similar to us, he's alienated through the distant gap that was two-thirds of his life between him and us. 

I turn away from the mirror. What today, is it going to be? Something should be different about today... not just waiting and waiting for this to be over. Because it is, and that means we can get on with whatever we're going to do. And that is-?

We stand around Ezrin, who clearly has something important to say. 

"I have an idea," he says, and as we can't think of anything, we listen a bit more closely. Following our indications of interest, Ezrin elaborates:

"Instead of working independently, how about we hire... say, a session musician to be the lead? Of course, you'll still write and compose your parts, but this prompted musician would divert the limelight, and preferably have a different instrument."

We slowly nod.

A brief debate follows, where we consider the pros and cons of this suggestion. Ultimately, we come to the agreement that we should definitely consider it as an option. 

-

And it goes back to inactivity. If one could only understand the true pains of absolute directionless, it wouldn't be me- not in the past few decades, at least. There was always a good plan and a sufficient purpose to match.

I don't think I ever felt this lost since Syd left- or rather, we left Syd. More temporal-psychological manipulation? But who is manipulating it? Maybe, possibly, likely my own feelings at the time. Or just me, right here, right now, or Syd in the corner, or Ezrin in the other corner, or Wright in the other other corner (what is he even doing?), or Nick on the floor, or _Gilmour_... I haven't got a lot of time to think about Gilmour, who's sitting pretty on the chair with his leg draped over the other- probably a dexterity he hasn't had in a long time. I would like to tell him to stop reading my copy of _A People's History of the United States,_ but wouldn't that be lovely- more conflict. And, this book, though not exactly of a modern day and age (published in '80), proves that Gilmour of the long-dead year 1968 is a tangible subject. Not even touching upon a ghost or an illusion, he exists- as all people of this day and age do. But others do not merely exist- they live, and we do not. Living requires awareness of existence, recognition of those who exist, and maintaining that recognition, and also the welfare of the existent. There are many non-existent inhabitants of our world, where most of the world only perceives them as problems- the people of rural and slum Africa, prevented from living through their myriad of hardships and much lack of help. Their rich population is a definitive minority, and these cheapskate capitalists aren't going to share their wealth anytime soon. I've heard here in San Francisco, the price for housing is so high that nearly everyone rents. Still, shoving over fifteen hundred or three thousand dollars to a landlord every month must be unbearable. And the houses for sale? It was on the news a few years ago that a dilapidated, peeling-paint house the size of your average suburban dwelling was on the market for a million. We New Yorkers just had to laugh, then looked behind us to the stakes with the price all over them, and sighed a collective 'oh...'. 

You have to wonder sometimes, where is your life going? I can't comprehend where it's supposed to go. I can't foresee the future. It's what may be known as an existential crisis, a longing to be in deep death but knowing it isn't going to come naturally anytime soon. I think something inside me has snapped at this point; watching as the horizon that seemed endless finally come in reach, only to have it extend beyond my perceptions yet again. All that's left here is an outdated version of myself, only existent to occasionally cast a look at in whatever mirrors may lie around. And when I do, I find that reproachful glare of his too astringent for my taste. Faces seem to be the main theme here, as silence has taken any aural or main emotional context and thrown it to the dogs. In the continuous brew of poison, I find myself becoming increasingly miserable, already reminiscing my less miserable days of a month ago. I don't think there was anything radical to warrant this abrupt and alarming shift in my life, not in any aspect. Although I was tasting a bit of awkward and bitter triteness, finding myself briefly conscious of the cyclical and never-ending endeavours I had been undertaking, I was enthused enough to be sated. Would I be enthused now?

No...

The concerns in my life before this situation have become so trivial I could laugh. Of course, the violent conflicts involving Israel and Palestine are incredibly important, but despite all my obsessiveness with it, I am not a citizen of either country nor a politician that can intervene. Though I could have, and I have, attempted to raise awareness, it had earned me nothing more than the misperception of anti-Semite. 

Secondly in the trivialities are rivalries. And of course, that involves the situation with Gilmour here that may or may not be fickle. I don't have to talk to him because of the crippling silence that has consumed every part of the room, but it may be that the crippling silence is caused by that very relief. I don't want to talk with Wright, either, whose mere existence makes everything feel inconceivably wrong. And... and just... Syd... I can't even think about it without-

I should just put my head down for a second...

Complying with my suggestion, I continue complaining to myself. Everything in this room is an inconvenience to my perception of this world. Imagine a pair of binoculars, then add a smudge here, a discolouration there, a warp in the very glass itself after leaving it in some extreme temperature, and then top it off with a crack and nice old scratch in either lens. I might as well close my eyes and imagine what luxury it would be to have a regular set with normal function- something I admit I've taken for granted. As with any situation with broken things, one can only watch it break, then instantly reminisce on what better times it was when, say, your vase wasn't broken. When your mind embraces you with fantastical visions of an object that isn't shattered on your kitchen floor, but in fact a visually pleasing object of possible curvature and speculative material being porcelain, you can't help but want to get lost in the idea of the now-antiquity state of your antique. The image in cobalt blue on a white backdrop, wrapped around the _presently_ **_whole_** and **_complete_** piece of pristine china, meticulously crafted and carefully handled. Very carefully. As it has been inspected, there are no major cracks that compromise its structure, and it's assured none of these minor ones will fester- after all, they're only natural. The imagery involves a flock of egrets- no, they're not cranes- and...

It seems my nose is already running on this rather chilly night. It's to be regarded with some kind of sadness, as we're leaving this quaint little city tomorrow, but does it really matter when you're slightly wasted? Not exactly, I don't think. Looking at the shabbiness of this street, I can't feel any remnants of whatever bohemian culture was here just a quintenntialistic aspect of time ago. Apparently, San Francisco has different sections to it, so maybe it's a niche infestation confined to the Haight-Ashbury region. It's very alarming, however, the rampant sexuality in this city. Women AND men a shade away from having reptile eyes asking us if we want 'favours', or some sniffing us down the neck and growling, ' _my, aren't you pretty?'_ before we have to back up and explain we're men, and they reply with, ' _It doesn't matter, honey. I'm going to tear you apart.'_

We choke down our horror and move on.

I can't help but be plagued by certain thoughts whilst having my mental control partially forfeited to the alcohol. I don't think it's a particular symptom of whenever I do have copious amounts of it (I like to think I'm abstinent), however, the slight fog does make it hard to tell. Brain fog, real fog... it's all the same, possibly the external haze penetrating into my mind. If there wasn't so much water vapour in the air, then I think I could make a particular case out of it. It being... well, whatever 'it' is. There isn't much clarity in these kinds of times, anyway.

Ah, right. The certain thoughts that plague me. Yes, of course. They all have to do with death. No matter how one tries to prevent the passage of time or think in the present, we all get to one point or another where we realise it's all too inevitable. In the years of childhood, one cannot fathom the process of growing up. This is to the point where it is the default for these young children unconsciously delude themselves into thinking their state is not only resident, but everybody else's as well. A rather depressing and disillusioning subject for them to encounter when they realise that adulthood is inevitable, almost as if the rules of the universe were distended and distorted for their timed inconvenience. In fact, the opposite is quite true, being everything is transient and only getting more so. The Renaissance lasted, debatably, for three hundred years, and the psychedelic era lasted, at most, two. And external to this societal acceleration is an acceleration of the very process itself. In the future, it could get so severe that we could have an unrelenting stream of new and outrageous perspectives on life that are only to be blown away into the wind, supplanted by something completely different. Any values held onto could be dismissed as the bones of the carcass the consumer animal has already torn all the meat off. Or rather, they could all be meaningless pieces of flotsam in an endless stream of garbage, designed to be forgotten about in the vast filth of society. Or maybe they're all sheep standing in the middle of a field without a point of direction, until one of them spontaneously receives mental liberation. As in, the four dimensions are so vast and infinite that no matter how impossible something may seem, time and chance shall allow it.

Unfortunately, all this luck is in vain, as once this mentally liberated sheep tells the other sheep, who subsequently champion the idea (as they need a shepherd to lead, and will inarguably support this radical idea), the perpetrator of the idea is hive-snagged by the popularity of their own thought. They stop generating these kinds of ideas to bask in their own success, and inadvertently become stuck again in the mental cycle. With that, the herd regresses back into vacant-minded premises. At that point, will the youth be aimless? As the world becomes increasingly scattered and unified, whilst technology becomes more and more advanced, what will they do at that point? At that point, the machines will have all the answers. God is no more, religion becoming increasingly archaic. Will the machine give the answers as to what one can be? Will the need to be special be so overwhelming that that generation can no longer tolerate any sense of cohesion and normality? Will everyone become an egoist-

"Roger- Roger!" A hand abruptly jerks me back, revealing the world as it is. As it is, I was about to walk off the curb and into a red-lighted street, cars mere inches (or none at all) from where I was headed. "Maybe you had a bit too much to drink, and may I suggest you stop drifting into a fugue every time that happens?" Dear guitarist Gilmour is holding fast onto my shoulder with his filth hand, and I don't think I want any sort of human touch after speculation of what everything could become. Giving him a sharp glare, I briefly switch to a skirt over his face to wonder how he fits into the schematics of all of this.

"Well, I was too busy contemplating the nature of life itself and what the future portends," I reply, throwing his articulated appendage off my person with expressed distaste. "But thank you." On the nature of death, I could have easily been run over. 

Gilmour gives a modest nod, casting an absent rightwards glance across the street to occupy himself. Following this meaningless directed prospection, I observe they're mere nondescript buildings, made so by their shoddy 'nightlife' feel. The art of a building on this strip blending in requires unexpected camouflage of neon signs that display various synominations or euphemisms of the phrase AROUSING FEMALES (or rarer 'arousing males'), and vague florescent shapes that give you a sampler of subjects said to be contained inside. This ends up sending everything awash in overstimulating colours. However, counterbalancing this is Earth's continuously preordained blackness, reserved for the exact time all the kinds of people drawn to the neon come out of the woodwork. That does not involve we four, who are just trying to find our way back to the bay-side hotel here.

The acute photophobia has decided to come early, instead of making its debut at tomorrow's unquestioned hangover (and I believe the repentance is only going to get worse, this isn't some early compensation). At least when we get out of this seemingly endless place of nightmares, it will be all over.

Green light is suddenly awash in my face, which forces me to quit reliving the still-present horror. However my roamings on existentialism may tread all over the walkways of life, it seems like this temporary, physical misery I'm drowning in may just cling onto me like a chronic parasite and stick with me until I drop dead. 

Four pairs of shoes walk across the tarmac... which is dampening. 

"Oh, Christ, it's raining," is my obligatory remark, but we take one glance at the kinds of people hanging under the awning and shudder, keeping our gloomy English selves out in the rain where we always are and always deserve. True, I had read the paper this morning and observed that we were due for a spell of rain- however being at midnight, but I didn't expect myself to be, well, out here right now. 

"It seems that the superstition of Englishmen bringing their weather with them wherever they go might have some merit to it," says Nick in a lightly thoughtful tone.

And being out here at night is truly frightening. San Francisco, by day shrouded in its glory days of antiquity and layered thick in historicality, a veil made of trolleys and painted ladies. By night... an entirely different thing, where America's European counterpart would collectively gasp at the obscenities. Despite the fact Britain stiffness had been significantly slackened during the London scene, people had mellowed out to resemble some kind of collective societal structure. As contracted to the Frisco, presently rife with raving half-naked prowlers who have decided to take it upon themselves to continue revolutionising the subject of sex and drugs when it's already exhausted. There may be a redeeming quality to it, that being the intricate jazz scene (and the aspect of the city we decided to narrow in on tonight, being we have just gone to a club where there were some stunning sounds to be heard). However, wedged between where we were and where we're going is a strait of extreme indulgences that really only rears its head post-dusk (oblivious to this as we were, driving through the late afternoon sometime before sundown), something that feels threatening even to a person like myself. 

The neon becomes blurry and distorted from the reduced visibility and refractive drapes of rain, and as we walk, the muted footfalls become splashy in nature, trodding through fresh and shallow puddles. Our eyes nervously dart at the possible miscreants that line the streets like mink fur in an expensive coat. Fortunately, they retreat into the alleys and dilapidation under the threat of being cold and soaked. We continue on our not-so-merry way, being I didn't consider bringing a rain jacket (and therefore am slowly being drenched). However, it's still better than having nothing on than rhinestone-studded undergarments or a leather catsuit merely to attract strangers for the purpose of satiation of a different kind of addiction. It may be that these people have multiple types of explicit addictions, that of sex and the typical type- the craving for disorientating drugs floating around in one's brain. The latter also seems to be supplanted by something else marginally better in my case, being the premature repentance for the liver-poisoning ethyl I downed. 

Even though this place simmers, steeps, percolates, boils, and suffuses itself with a particular nastiness to it, even drowning in the liberally given everything, in a sea of neon where the very future itself seems lost (A reasonable and humane combination of the public and the hypersexual? I don't think so), there is a sight for sore eyes. All this decrepitude, which has the capability to frame myself, a reasonably modern person, as one of those staunch, dusty war remnants, is shattered by a brief flash of light. Nearly like a monadnock in the desert (or a certain ubiquitously-shaped structure typically found there), we have this massive building here that I regret not giving any attention to. Seeing it now, I wonder how I _didn't_ notice it. It's so ostentatious- just right there, begging to be observed. I heard some locals dissenting its existence, reasoning with "We don't want no damn triangle on our skyline! We have a BRIDGE, for God's sake, and some futuro-Egyptian shit isn't going to take that away from us!"

I know it will grow on them in time. I'm sure of it. 

San Francisco, the city of broken dreams. The pyramid is a broken dream, a vision of the future that will never come to pass. Looking at the way things are going, everyone's reaching for the stars, not finding themselves already falling. I know these prossies will either die of some sex disease, or be chained to wife/husband and children. It's the law of the land, of society. This sexual revolution won't last, and maybe in fifty years, it'll all be corporate down here. As the scene slowly begins to dissolve around us, I direct the others' attention to this building. A shining beacon of consistent pre-or-post-reality.

"This is it, future's here, boys!" I exclaim, noting my voice is coming out a bit too loose, because my certainty is. As if a switch has been flipped, the others begin laughing, even somewhat uncontrollably, as if my suggestion is just too hilarious. 

"Inévitablement, nous allons tous être de misérables vieillards," David half-mumbles, then raises his voice with "You architecture snobs leave me out of this." That coerces a hic out of me, suddenly triggering a landslide effect to when I begin thinking again, my lungs are near-collapsed. 

"Wot'd you say?" I ask, "Like, in French."

"Nothing. Just the predestined," he replies. I don't care too much to ask further, as it everything seems pointless in the wake of this massive quasi-obelisk. Everything is just futile, as if I should throw myself to the ground and beg for mercy from it. Lit in an array of cat-eye yellow windows, and greyish over the darkness of everything else, it is something completely different. One day, it will all be like the pyramid.

\----

The colours only continue to brighten and blur, the sickening feeling becoming worse and worse. Whilst the pinks and reds and oranges and greens burn with ever-growing animosity of luminosity, the shadows get blacker and blacker, distortion and contrast increasingly prominent. The sky, at first a reasonable cornflower, has devolved into a burning electric blue, adding to the decreasing unnaturalistic tendency of the situation. A faint ringing noise newly emerges; creating a further sense of unease in the man standing in the field. What exactly he has gotten himself into, he has no idea. As the ringing elongates and distends into a roaring, churning mass of noises, the scene reduced to its most rudimentary and intensive shapes and colours, the man cannot help but feel his composure crumbling. Increasingly feeling the urge to scream under this stressing scenario that he has the unfortunacy of being immersed in, he desperately attempts to hold onto anything with a semblance of calm, which proves fruitless.

_Please keep collected..._

The best way to do this would be to avert sensory intake from the situation altogether. The man finds himself overwhelmed by the overstimulation, dropping to his knees in the neon green visual inferno of what can barely be recognised as grass anymore. The roaring metamorphoses into a cacophony of tortured screams in confused and various pitches, weaving a web of extreme distress and unease for the man experiencing it. Even as he feebly attempts to cover his ears, and with a little more constitution perform a re-attempt at this, the noise seems to be coming from internally. To him, this makes absolutely no sense, as beforehand he felt no turmoil, and the type of internal conflict that would generate an experience like this couldn't possibly exist within himself. He feels that it is harder and harder to stop himself from joining with, or even completely submitting to the chorus supplied directly from Hell itself.

_No, no, I'm the moderate here. I count on others to express panic and frustration and fight amongst each other, whilst_ **_I_ ** _try and organise the situation!_

Considering the situation, it's becoming a fantastic burden to act as the mediator, and now the aural vehemence is preventing his thoughts from completing themselves. Struggling to think, the most basic of coordination activity performance is too distracted by the immediate and continuing backwash. With no amount of effort able to counter his enemy, Nick fully collapses into the grass. To a stark and paling realisation, he feels no release from the torture.

"Aw, Christ," he just manages to breathe at this realisation, before his vocal cords fully seize. The intense stiffness causes him to feel like he's choking, and worse yet it seems the air is beginning to sizzle. Nick additionally figures his vision is corrupting, as he distinguishes a new, staticky misperception corrupting his sight as internal. Saying it for certain, he is definitely suffering. Not finding a particular reason or origin for this hellish experience, he continues the conflict between himself and everything else.

_All I wanted to do was stop and smell the roses... or poppies... or daisies_ (procuring an image on an algae-riddled beach and Roger standing there, staring at Nick, looking rather cross) _, and now what? This. I'm in over a field and under a sky of embodied choleric. I can't understand it or withstand it anymore, I might as well just disintegrate._

The problem is, unrelenting is one of the primary embodiments of choleric, and this unreticence seems to override Nick. In accordance with the surroundings and a betrayal to itself, his body refuses to categorise this excruciation into a set of predictable patterns as it naturally would, and therefore every second is glaringly novel.

Nick refuses to scream, despite the unrelenting loufoquerie and chaos being inflicted upon him. The air has swiftly become scorching, and now intense pins and needles stab everywhere in the air, joining with its equivalent visual.

_I will not scream I will not scream I will not scream I WILL not scream I WILL NOT scream I WILL NOT SCREAM I WILL NOT SCREAM I WILL NOT SCREAM-_

_\--_

"There is nothing as trivial as onions," Rick says to himself, examining the specimen he is holding in one hand. He isn't exactly sure as to why onions are at the top of the list in the matter of triviality, but that's all there seems to be in the room: onions. One red, one white, and this one, a yellow. Additionally, there is a bundle of spring onions in the corner, but that of itself is a whole other issue.

"Ngh," he self-counters, giving into the imminent need to peel off a loose layer of dry, skin-coloured mundanity superimposed upon the allium's sulfuric contents. With its unenthusiastic papery crinkling being the last of its protests, Rick finds this a mutual agreement to its total desecration. In a fit of gratuitous rage, Rick gently places the onion down on the floor and brings his boot down upon it. It is brought under immense pressure, and nearly instantaneously flattens, juices leaking out of the vegetable. Now, it may be more or less of an onion than onion puree, or possibly the aforementioned complete structure finely minced. Of course, little precision was used here, natural supreme power over it was all Rick needed to achieve his vision. But the real comparison to be made is in the destruction of potential for life, not how precise the death in itself was. The standard supermarket yellow onion usually has no signs of greenery, and all of its roots are withered dry. Despite this, if it planted in damp soil or put in room-temperature water, over some time, it will naturally begin to develop. This is true for all root vegetables, who are plants waiting to emerge.

Rick has denied this to the vegetable. Yet, he still feels unsatisfied, and turns to the two remaining globular onions. 

Not a minute later, there are carbon-copies of the remains of the yellow onion on the floor, nevermind their variation in colour. If the bundle of spring onions could express itself with even the most basic form of sentience, it would definitely feel terrorised. 

"I don't feel happy," Rick reminds himself, staring out into the white abyss, "It's never enough. Nothing I do, nothing _we_ do." He pauses for a moment, feeling a confused expression slide over his face. "But who is 'we'?" He turns around, only to find more of that ceilingless, floorless, horizonless maw. "Exactly. I and what army? I and what person?" He shrugs to himself, turning around once again to his original direction, where the bundle of spring onions is in direct line of sight. Walking over to them, he picks it up by its collective neck, the leaves shimmying in a rather mournful way. Rick contemplates hard as to how to assess this, yet finds no immediate solution.

"I despise you," he notifies the puzzling plants in his grip. It does not wilt, as it cannot process this information in any way whatsoever. "You possess the most rudimentary of functions found in a living being, and providing no autonomous supplementation to my state, I hereby declare you excommunicated."

"You and what church?" He yet again questions himself, dropping the plant to resume wondering about this. Instead of expunging the spring onions of life capability, he decides it would be more productive to wander off. As he does this, he realises that even in-store, the spring onion is a full plant anyways. It may not be as recognisable as such, due to how used to seeing the full plant anyone could be, or maybe because the leaves of the plant are unusual in relation to other kinds of leaves, but if planted in the ground or put in water, it would _continue_ to grow, not start to grow. 

Not even sure if he's walking on a solid surface, and unable to tell so, Rick simultaneously feels as if he's continually trapped in a box perfectly sized for extreme claustrophobia, and conversely an infinite space involving all three-dimensional planes stretching infinitely in all directions. The onions, no matter beforehand or afterwards, gave Rick a sense of distance, (even if it was only between him and those onions) and now he's in a misery of an unreality. He is intermittently looking over his shoulder in an attempt to get a glimpse of the green (and still abstractifying) dot in the (still furthering) distance. Too quickly, he finds that this completely disappears, and again he is truly alone. Looking down at himself, Rick at least knows it is himself and nothing additional or subtracted. A smile with solemn astringency at the latter thought, which descends into a disappointed frown.

"If only that were true," Rick sighs, knowing there is a void in his heart. The empyreal prospect of living itself has left him unable to take the same reins in the same way he had before. If he is to manage, he can only handle so many of these reins. 

These thoughts, given enough unspecified time and aimlessness, have devolved into internal imagery of horse corpses. Producing another noncommittal and resigned exhalation, Rick stares up from looking at his own mind, and again regrets it. The vastness is making him anxious, and he'd much rather not be _this_ , in some kind of purgatory with onions and such. If this was what he spent twelve years of his life doing (or something similar, Rick can't remember quite particularly) he wouldn't do it again. It'd be better to have his lonely existence stimulated with some sensory experience, any pasture or skyscraper, any other person, any other feeling other than isolation. Nothing but the effortlessly interchangeable celestial and clinical white. Seraphic and sanitised have no differentiation, the portended endlessly unclouded sky from a domain above the Earth the same colour as the latex gloves that sharply snap when pulled on. As is with the uniforms and of surgeons, nurses, and doctors, a major component in their palette triptych of lead white, uranian blue, and stainless steel. 

Rick feels it would be so much better if he could turn tail and hide within the sanctuary of ivory black, ivory white, and Cambridge green. Not this assortment of Rick's associative hell. What only makes this more flaming is the world of primary pastels, adobe beige, silicon blue, crane white, and international orange that is about to engulf his life. 

Deciding he is tired, Rick sits down, only to find that it is impossible. In what way? Impairably impossible.

Everything breaks.

...

"I don't think I've used a Fender very recently," David notes, looking over the instrument provided. It's, as he said, a regular Fender Stratocaster.

"Cette déclaration que vous venez de faire est très contradictoire, car c'est le principal type de guitare que vous utilisez," says the Gallic Rooster, "Où est ta mémoire, David?" As soon as le coq suggests this, David suddenly remembers all the times with his wonderful Black Strat. 

"I see, but what is this?! This Stratocaster is blue."

"Blue like tears in a painting. Like your tears when you awaken and remember what horrors await."

David doesn't register this information, and ignores it as something incomprehensible. "What do you expect me to do?"

"Rien. Ne fais rien du tout."

David sighs hopelessly, as he has always. He has no idea what to do with the Stratocaster. The fret markers are abalone, which is very disturbing for some reason, and he can't possibly compute the reality of the fact that the Stratocaster is (debatably) blue with a (disputably) white pickguard, and it (inarguably) would be acrimonious to simply take it. After all, it's an object. Objects should not be taken. In fact, what is the point of it all? He may as well throttle the Gallic Rooster, this is all its fault. It may as well be an object to discard. This could be simply resolved once its life force is gone, which then it becomes simply nutritive or taxidermist content. There would be no further use for le coq. 

"May I have permission to kill you?" David asks, looking at his hands, which could possibly perform this farmerly deed. They know what is basic violence, how to coordinate with the arm to visualise dealing a good one in the jaw to Roger, how to desperately attempt to claw his own eyes out after seeing various ocular abhorrences, or throttling a rooster until its strained squeaks become the last noises it utters. 

But David is not that kind of man. 

What his hands really know what to do is to coerce the sound out of strings. These strings are suspended over a fretboard (or perhaps fingerboard if we're talking a fretless variety), travelling across the nut and fed into the tuning keys, or perhaps one would look downward to find it gliding across pickups or acoustic holes and coiling around the other end on the string pegs. Under the fretboard is a neck, which also connects to the wonderfully engineered tuning system, an invention for the ages (despite the fact it was implemented before, David can't help but admire its ingenuity). Fastening the string pegs in place, like a mancala board with round plastic eyespotted eggs nestled inside the wooden depressions, is the bridge. And of course, between these parts and under the pickups or making the acoustic hole, is the body. The guitar is a truly beautiful instrument in David's eyes. After so many years, it has never gotten old. By being accessible on the eyes from the very beginning, being accessible to the hands from the beginning (clearly, in David's opinion, the easiest instrument), and being accessible to the ears from the very beginning, it was truly something. Through the guitar dragged him down into the depths of depravity at times, through those dark alleyways and "shortcuts" of metaphorical life, where he found himself unable to move because of the hunger (not only feeling, but definitely seeing his ribs protrude like the internal structure of the Sydney opera house) and cold (as well as feeling the ribs, he could swear he felt the marrow turning to ice inside), deeply regretting dropping out of French studies. He thought of the pessimistic nature of the language, mentally paging through its reams of words to describe insanity and chaos that was hidden from the general non-French public. Masked in rose perfume, bread, cheese, and the mythos of the phoenican (denoting phoenixes) city that Napoleon had risen out of the ashes to create something outwardly marvellous. Foreigners were, and are, clueless. Paris is the ultimate historical tourist attraction, but that doesn't stop it from having many gales of trash skittering around the streets, McDonald's being on the Champs-Élysées, the homeless hanging around, chain-smoking and muttering at one disturbingly guttural tones, the over-enthusiastic Japanese tourists having their hopes and dreams crushed by the filthiness and rudeness that is nearly obligatory in such a big city (Exception being _the_ largest city in the world, Tokyo, courtesy of Japan, which is rather ironic).

Despite knowing the nature of languages possibly better than anyone else in the band, David was disappointed in his inability to be any sort of lyricist. At first, it didn't bother him much, as that meant he could focus on his songwriting abilities and techniques, instead of being made to feel frustrated and inferior by himself in a futile attempt to write lyrics that, despite hours of deliberation, turned out awkward and strained on anyone's tongue. And it did benefit from this way, for a long time. Until, David found himself frustrated by his lack of ideas, watching as Roger exerted his increasingly personal creative control over the band. With the vision, the writing, follows the music, at least in Roger's mind. Concept first, music second. But Dave and Rick could agree it was the other way around. After all, classical and instrumental jazz was big, but who saw poem vinyl recordings flying off the shelves? The narrower the specificity got, the less appeal it had. Existential crisis of an entire generation? Very, very palatable, 741-weeks-on-the-charts palatable. Issues surrounding the loss of a beloved band member and corporate tyrants that bring about the downfall of a child's innocence? It brought them closer together, even after being fractured by abundant fortune and fame (by name of the band, anyway, nobody really knew nor cared what they looked like). And, it proved to be as much of a success. Now, left-wing quasi-punk hard-rock under the stylistic influences of what was usually recognised as pretence? More so that it's beginning to focus on Roger's opinions? A bit difficult in production, as a blooming ego begins to make Wright wilt and David retaliate. It had fallen a bit from their regarded 'transcendent' standard, but the humanitarian universality that came with them was quickly running out. Further narrow this, further the strangler fig wraps around the tree, combined with financial peril, and a dash of the overruling philosophy of _ignore the problem_ , a caustic cocktail of a situation comes up. Roger has this high-polish demo, too complete in the sense it could truly be a collaboration, and exacerbated by the fact that he is highly defensive of it, regarding unadulteration. Thinking he has the perfect thing and no one else can improve upon it signifies a disconnect from other people, especially his own bandmates. This fierce protection is supplemented by the fact Roger has imposed upon himself, and therefore the band, that they will die if they don't get the album out by the holidays, they will most definitely be forced to face the horrid monster that is millions of pounds of debt-

-"Pour répondre à votre question, je dis non," finally replies the Gallic rooster, snapping David from pickling in his vast vat of briny memories.

"Maintenant que j'y ai réfléchi, je n'ai plus envie de te tuer," he agrees, eyes darting to the bird for some kind of approval for something unspecified. With no particular response from le coq, David sets the Stratocaster against the conjunction of two spontaneously-formed walls (un coin, bien sûr) of the spontaneously-formed room.

"Je suis tout le temps dans votre subconscient. Je m'excuse pour les inconvénients que cela a pu causer dans le passé, mais rassurez-vous, c'est ce que je peux déterminer pour le mieux," says le coq, with little substance to its crow or words.

"What you determine as best is not good enough," David replies, already feeling everything lose its meaning. Everything had, already. Not that he is about to go into another tangent, but slowly, everything lost its significance, its novelty, which is an important aspect of life. Now, dwelling on something and dwelling somewhere he does not know isn't going to change that.

"Pas si vous démissionnez à l'inconnu," the rooster attempts to console, but David feels the strings of fabricated reality being pulled out the hem. "Le noir et le bleu sont tous pareils, de toute façon. Malgré le fait que les oiseaux sont des tétrachromates et que je peux donc percevoir un million de couleurs de plus que vous ne le pouvez, toujours. Néanmoins, le noir est bleu et le bleu est noir, alors prenez-le ou vous n'y arriverez pas."

"Black and blue are vastly different colours-"

"Je n'ai pas le temps pour vos arguments, stupide mortel. Le fait est que je suis français et que vous ne l'êtes pas est la raison pour laquelle je solidifie ma déclaration. Ce qui est, bien sûr, un beau pays bien meilleur que celui dans lequel vous êtes né ou celui dans lequel vous résidez actuellement. Soyez reconnaissant que les gens vous percevront à tort comme Français, car c'est un grand honneur d'être une personne de là-bas. Nous nous relèverons pour que toutes les autres nations se prosternent devant nous, pour être le PLUS GRAND EMPIRE DU MONDE! Et comme la première étape de cela est d'écouter nos paroles: le noir est bleu, le bleu du drapeau français est le noir de nos volontés de fer, le noir de la tempête que nous apporterons sur le ciel bleu, car les deux sont entrelacés et un constant, noir et blanc du monde dans lequel nous vivrons, le noir et blanc seulement contrasté par le rouge du sang! Alors prends la foutue guitare, stupide homme, et exerce la colère des Français sur les Etats-Unis!"

David blinks harshly, synaesthesised by the vehement aural sunrays streaming from the beak of this self-proclaimed god, who speaks as if he was Napoleon reincarnated. Le coq stops strutting from left to right and stops in the middle of the room that was superimposed over the great void, staring expectantly at David with one golden realgar eye. 

"Tu fais ça, ou je vais te tuer."

David is feeling fully threatened. He eyes the seemingly innocuous blue guitar, which is waiting for him to run his fingers over it, as if this was the only instrument in the world that could help him.

Is it?

David looks helplessly at the rooster, who now has its control over him. He sighs, and reaches for the blue Stratocaster. A look seeps over his face, that of reluctance, the manifestation of his internal feelings. How could it have come to this point? How could it have... how... how...

Before he knows it, his hand is wrapping around the neck of the guitar. Feeling faint, he removes it from its position d'angle, very much ready to weep. He feels the nature of this is turning malicious, and the inevitable fact is that he will have to play this thing, wring a sound of it, its sound trickling from a gaping wound in reality. 

"Demain, vous rencontrerez mon associé, qui vous informera sur le vrai sens de la vie que vos amis commencent à comprendre. Soyez prêt, car ils ne tolèrent pas l'hésitation."

Le coq disparaît, sans aucune trace.

David holds the guitar out in front of himself, mourning the days gone by, and the days that could have come ahead. He pauses.

The future that could have been is as unchangeable as the past. This realisation is even more disparaging, as he has tried to tell himself this many times before in order to force himself to accept this as is. But the sheer confusion of the situation, the inconceivable bewilderment and insanity of it all is too much for even the most phlegmatic of personalities. 

David gives in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, if you do not relish the dream sequences, there will be more next chapter. They are to bridge the relentless scenes of boringness that would normally ensue, and please dismiss these strange dream elements as manifestations of the subconscious.   
> The next chapter begins with the word "Konbanwa".


	14. Ahfuewmh9peqr

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> uh

The thirteenth chapter has been fixed. Hooray. Brand new, shiny stuff; three times the original length.

Update II: I have no idea where this is going. This work: possibly now orphaned.


End file.
